


(The Future is) Still to be Won

by wildforce71



Series: Powers 'Verse [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Supernatural - Freeform, more tags as I post, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-03-08 12:37:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 78,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3209501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildforce71/pseuds/wildforce71
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In as much as it is given to God, and God alone, to command such forces...all those found to control Abilities will be, in the least, imprisoned to stop the spread of their heresy...and at the most, released to the Divine Judgment of God. This shall be law wheresoever our Mother Church holds sway."</p><p>-<i>Church law, ratified 1587</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friends and Enemies

He should have known.

d'Artagnan raced through the streets, cursing himself soundly. That woman – she'd been so lustful, sending his senses reeling with it. He'd gotten caught up in it, unable to see past it, unable to see that she was broadcasting exactly what she wanted him to feel.

And now he was on the run as a suspected murderer, and no closer to the man who'd killed his father.

Constance was a godsend when he found her. Wary, as any woman would after the way he'd treated her, but genuinely worried about him. Waking up in her hands was one of the more pleasant awakenings he'd had recently.

And then he walked into the Musketeer garrison, pistol raised and ready. "I'm looking for Athos!"

He blocked everything he was feeling as he fought; it left him feeling muffled, as through his head was wrapped in fabric, and he couldn’t maintain it for long, but it was much better than being tangled in someone else's mind while they fought. He'd spent days sick after killing someone he was reading, and he couldn't afford that here, where there was no one he could trust.

But the Musketeer Athos was so insistent, and his friends believed him enough to intrude on a duel. When Constance appeared, and the duel was obviously over, d'Artagnan risked letting the world back in, braced against the flood of foreign emotions.

"I am not the man you're looking for," Athos told him as the guards led him away, and d'Artagnan felt the truth of it in every part of his body. Athos meant every word he said.

"Then why did my father name you before he died?" he shouted after him, but he didn't expect an answer now.

Athos gone, the other two turned on d'Artagnan. “And you…”

"I have him," Constance said before either Musketeer could continue. "Come on, d'Artagnan. Let me look at those ribs. You shouldn't be fighting, you know."

She led d'Artagnan back to her house, settling him in front of the fire while she found some cloth to use as bandages. Halfway through her husband arrived home; d'Artagnan ignored him, more or less, trying to sort through his tangled emotions. Athos was the only lead he had; Athos had not committed the murder; Athos was going to hang for it anyway.

He sensed the Musketeers just before they entered the house. Constance hadn't finished with his ribs, but he didn't care. If the Musketeers had a plan to find out who was committing these crimes, he wanted to be part of it. He went with them with only a smile for Constance.

Along the way he learned that Athos’ friends were called Aramis and Porthos, and that they believed utterly in his innocence. He’d rarely felt such devotion from anyone, and it was the last sign that he must have been wrong about Athos. 

When they reached the inn d'Artagnan led the other two around the outside rather than through the courtyard. He knew they’d both noticed, but neither said anything about it, letting him choose their path.

The man he’d killed was lying in a shallow grave in the field behind the inn. Porthos took care of uncovering him, pulling away the loose shroud someone had wrapped him in.

d'Artagnan crouched on the edge of the hole, breathing through the rush of images and sensations, trying to find the one he needed. There; confused traces on the clothes. Opening his eyes, he scanned for the clue he needed to prove it to the Musketeers. “Look at his clothes. There’s two bullet holes.”

“So?” Aramis asked.

“I only fired once.”

Porthos scrambled into the hole, pushing the bloodstained jerkin aside. “This is the shot that killed him…and this hole doesn’t match any wound.”

“It means he wasn’t wearing the uniform when it was fired,” Aramis said thoughtfully.

“But someone else was.”

“Cornet.”

“Those Musketeers didn’t just vanish, they were attacked.”

d'Artagnan followed them back to the horses, pleased at how easy that had been. He’d barely needed to say anything. They were smart, these Musketeers.

He hung back when they found the dead Musketeers. He hadn’t known them, after all, and Porthos and Aramis’ grief was too sharp to trespass on. Something lingered under the edge of Aramis’ grief, some old terror, but he didn’t push, he didn’t want to.

By the time they returned to the horses Porthos’ grief had moved into anger. d'Artagnan turned away, heading back towards his horse, blocking as well as he could. It was getting harder. Too long away from home, too long away from everything that had ever grounded him, too long with these extremes of emotion.

“d'Artagnan,” Aramis said from behind him. “The men who did this killed your father as well. If you want justice, help us find them and clear Athos’ name.”

d'Artagnan nodded wearily, climbing back onto his horse.

“Are you ill, d'Artagnan?” Aramis asked, watching him. “Ribs bothering you?”

“No. Just tired.” He forced a smile. “It’s been a long day, after all.”

Aramis smiled faintly. “Amen.”

Porthos’ Spanish gold brought them to a Red Guard. d'Artagnan hung back again as they interrogated him; he knew the Musketeers didn’t mean the man any harm, but he also knew they wouldn’t hesitate to hurt him to save Athos. Deliberate violence wasn’t something he was used to, and the feelings swirling around made him feel sick.

It was worth it, though, to get the lead to Gaudet. d'Artagnan followed the other two without paying much attention to where they were going. He was sinking fast, and soon he was going to have to stop and recenter himself.

Constance was willing to help, and she didn’t even make d'Artagnan explain the whole plan before going to get changed. He was glad her husband wasn’t home to see her walk out with him.

He wasn’t planning to kill Gaudet. Not really. Aramis was right, they needed him to save Aramis, and d'Artagnan needed him to face justice. But he could sense the rage and knew Gaudet would never surrender, so he felt no guilt when Gaudet ran onto his blade.

Constance was shaking, trembling, guilty for killing, not sorry the man was dead, glad d'Artagnan was well; a mess of emotions, and he wasn’t surprised when she asked him to take her home. Aramis and Porthos promised they could handle things from here, and d'Artagnan walked Constance home and let her talk about her feelings. Something he was good at, helping people work out what they were really feeling.

Sitting in a tavern, later, watching Athos try and drink away the guilt drowning him, he knew he had no more time. 

Aramis rose to leave, settling his hat carefully on his head. “Do you need somewhere to stay?”

“No. But I do need another favour. May I walk with you?”

Aramis gestured expansively. “My path is yours. Porthos, I will see you tomorrow.”

They walked in silence for a few moments, until Aramis prompted “Something I can help you with?”

“Yes.” d'Artagnan took a deep breath. “Do you know of a church or chapel where I could spend the night without being interrupted?”

Aramis studied him. “You didn’t strike me as the religious type.”

d'Artagnan smiled tightly. “I sent my father’s body back to Gascony, to the care of my neighbours. They will honour him as I would, I have no concerns, but…I would like to spend a night alone. It doesn’t have to be a church; anywhere I can be alone will do.”

Aramis’ eyes had softened. “My friend, I’m so sorry. I hadn’t even considered…of course, I know a place. Come with me.”

By the time they reached the church d'Artagnan felt like he was floating. Feelings wrapped around him from everywhere and he had to struggle to keep from reacting to them. He missed Aramis’ conversation with the priest entirely; the man touched his arm for his attention and gestured away.

“Old monk’s cells,” Aramis offered when d'Artagnan looked around for him, confused. “It won’t be luxurious, but it will be quiet, and they won’t come near you until you come out.”

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan murmured. Aramis tipped his hat, and d'Artagnan turned away, following the priest. The cell wasn’t luxurious – it was one step up from a barn – but once the door was closed, he was alone, and the room had been empty long enough that there was only the faintest trace of the last occupant. d'Artagnan was able to ignore it with very little effort.

Sinking down cross legged, he pulled out his mother’s rosary and began to rebuild his shattered walls.

 

Aramis had been waiting for almost three hours when d'Artagnan finally emerged from the church, close to noon. He didn’t begrudge the boy the time; grief was difficult under any circumstances, and the delay d'Artagnan had had to deal with would have made things more difficult.

d'Artagnan looked surprised to see him; he hesitated before crossing the road to where Aramis was perched on a low wall. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Aramis echoed, offering him an apple. d'Artagnan took it automatically and then stared at it, bewildered.

“Well, I was going to ask if you’d eaten yet, but that answers that.”

“Abbe…” d'Artagnan shook his head. “The Abbe offered, but I refused.”

“Did it help?” d'Artagnan glanced up at him, and he added, “Not refusing. The night. Did it help?”

“It helped,” d'Artagnan agreed.

“Return any time; the priests won’t stop you, now that they know we’re friends.”

d'Artagnan played with the apple for a moment. “Are we?”

“Friends?” Aramis laughed softly, and then realised d'Artagnan was entirely serious. “d'Artagnan, you saved Athos’ life. There is nothing you can ask us we won’t do if we can.”

“I didn’t really…”

“You saved his life,” he repeated firmly.

“I tried to kill him.”

Aramis shook his head firmly. “You wouldn’t have hurt him. Well, maybe hurt him. You wouldn’t have killed him. Even if you could have beaten him –“

“ ‘If’ ? I was winning until you interfered!”

“Winning?” Aramis repeated, smiling when d'Artagnan absently bit into the apple. “Is that what that was? Forgive me, I didn’t recognise it.” d'Artagnan scowled, taking another bite, and Aramis continued “Even _when_ you beat him, you wouldn’t have killed him. You’re not that man.”

“Maybe,” d'Artagnan murmured.

Aramis bounced down from the wall, clapping him on the shoulder. “Come on.”

“Come on where?” he asked suspiciously.

“To the garrison.”

Aramis deliberately kept walking a pace or two before turning back. d'Artagnan had stopped dead exactly where he was, staring at him. “What?”

“The _garrison_ ,” d'Artagnan repeated.

“The garrison. That’s where Athos is.”

“Where Athos is.”

Aramis went back to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and urging him onwards. “He wants to talk to you.”

“I spent all day yesterday at the garrison, waiting for him to talk to me.”

“I know. My apologies. I had something I needed to do, and he stopped to help me.” Dead Musketeers in the snow had shaken him badly, and he hadn’t been able to convince Athos to leave him alone. Porthos wouldn’t have, either, if he hadn’t been elected to keep d'Artagnan around. “But he’s waiting for you now.”

“Should I fall on my sword here, or wait until he can see me do it?”

Aramis stopped, swinging around to look at him, catching his shoulders in both hands. “One more time. _You saved his life_. He knows that you attacked him in grief and despair; Athos understands grief, and he has forgotten your actions already. You saved his life and he is grateful, and he wishes to talk to you. Please come with me.” And if Athos wouldn't have died, this life would certainly have been over, though he couldn't explain that to d'Artagnan.

d'Artagnan studied him for a moment before nodding. "Very well."

"Good. Now. Tell me about Gascony. I was there once, a long time ago."

d'Artagnan talked about Gascony, in generalities rather than specifics. Aramis listened carefully, asking questions here and there, listening to his tone and the things he wasn't saying. The boy was grieving, still, but not the all-consuming kind he'd been suffering before. This was slower, softer sadness he'd feel for months and years yet.

d'Artagnan didn't hesitate at the garrison entrance, walking in alongside Aramis without missing a beat in the conversation. Aramis could sense the tension in him, though. He was glad when Porthos waved at them, absently throwing his sparring partner over his shoulder and coming to join them. "There's our Gascon. I thought you were going to keep him, Aramis."

"My apologies," Aramis said, waving d'Artagnan to the table. Athos was already there, and from the cloths laid out he'd been polishing his weapons, but there was no sign of them now.

"You were rather a long time," Athos said mildly.

"I was waiting."

"Waiting?" Porthos repeated. "Didn't go in after him? Where was he that you didn't want to go in?"

"Church," d'Artagnan said shortly. "Praying for my father. If I'd known you wanted to see me, I'd have come sooner."

Athos shook his head. "Don't be foolish; of course you should pray for your father. I hope Aramis hasn't interrupted anything else you had planned."

"No plans."

Athos glanced at Aramis, who explained, "He's a little concerned that you're holding a grudge."

d'Artagnan whipped around to glare at him, but Athos was already saying "A grudge? For saving my life?"

"I didn't save your life, I tried to kill you."

"He saved your life," Porthos said firmly.

"I'm aware," Athos agreed. "I believe you killed Gaudet."

d'Artagnan looked down at the table. "I'm not sorry that he's dead. But I know that it made your defense harder, and I'm sorry for that."

"He ran onto your blade, I saw it happen," Aramis reminded him.

"And my defense was fine," Athos added. "What will you do now?"

"Go home, I suppose," d'Artagnan said with a shrug. 

"To Gascony? Be a farmer?" Athos shook his head. "A waste of talent. Let us train you, and I'll guarantee you a place in the regiment of your choice."

“ ‘Us’, “ Porthos noted to Aramis.

“I think we’ve been volunteered,” Aramis agreed cheerfully.

“He’s good at that, have you noticed?”

“It does seem to be his skill, yes.”

“Gentlemen,” Athos said mildly. “d'Artagnan? You can’t tell me you’d rather be a farmer over serving in the regiments. Training with us – Porthos, _shut up_ – will get you into any of them.”

d'Artagnan looked up, blinking. "Including this one?"

Aramis grinned, glancing at Porthos. That was very neatly done; d'Artagnan was clearly skilled with more than a blade.

"I can't promise you a place in the Musketeers," Athos said apologetically. "But I can give you the best chance possible, if it's what you want."

"You don't owe me anything."

"This isn't for you," Athos lied briskly. "I have a duty as a Musketeer to insure that the regiments are filled with talented young men. And you, d'Artagnan, would be wasted on a farm in Gascony. At least try, for a time. See what you think."

"Who's running your farm now?" Porthos asked.

"My fath – my headman. He's a good man, he'll be able to keep it running. Better than I would, I imagine."

"What's going on?" Treville called from above them.

Aramis grinned as d'Artagnan instinctively shot to his feet. "Captain, you remember d'Artagnan," he called up, lounging just a little more than he had been.

Treville eyed him. "What's he doing here?"

"Beginning his apprenticeship," Athos told him.

"It is customary for these things to go through the captain, you know."

"We were just on our way up to see you."

"I'm sure. Come on, then, I've got to be at the palace shortly."

Athos gestured d'Artagnan towards the stairs. Porthos slid along the bench to sit opposite Aramis, watching the pair leave. "Think he'll stay?"

"Oh, I'm almost sure he will. At least long enough to learn something."

"And the other thing?"

"No idea yet. We'll keep an eye. Come on; I'm sure your aim could do with some work, it usually can."

"Loser buys dinner?"

"Suits me, I'm rather hungry..."


	2. Sleight of Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of those questions are answered in this chapter. Not all of them, mind. Got to keep you coming back for more... :D

“It was a good trick,” Vadim said thoughtfully, coughing before finishing, “It should have worked…”

d'Artagnan hunkered in front of him, studying him. “It almost did.” Vadim smiled ruefully, collapsing all at once.

d'Artagnan pushed to his feet, shaking slightly. Aramis automatically stepped up to his side, studying him. “d'Artagnan?”

d'Artagnan waved him off. “I’m just tired.”

“I would think so,” Aramis agreed, watching him. “We’ll take you back to the garrison while Treville sorts out your pardon.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot I was wanted for duelling,” d'Artagnan murmured. Looking up, he added “Garrison?”

“Safest place for you.” Aramis patted him on the shoulder; the contact wasn’t enough for him, but d'Artagnan was jittery enough right now. “It won’t be for long. Once you’re pardoned, we’ll explain to the Bonacieux.”

“Bonacieux,” d'Artagnan repeated, looking at him – and seeing him properly for the first time. “Aramis, I need something.”

“You need food and rest.”

“My rosary,” d'Artagnan continued firmly. “It’s at the Bonacieux house. I need it. Please.”

“You can borrow mine,” Aramis offered.

“ _No_ ,” d'Artagnan said sharply, swaying for a moment until he caught himself. “Sorry,” he added more quietly. “It’s a family heirloom, it’s my mother’s. I haven’t prayed on any other in years. Please, Aramis.”

“All right,” Aramis agreed, taking the moment to brush some hair from d'Artagnan’s eyes. The Gascon blinked but let him do it, and Aramis used the contact to Read what he needed. Sore ribs, torn wrists, completely exhausted mentally and physically; nothing that wouldn’t heal, but he could See enough to know the rosary was important and for whatever reason d'Artagnan wouldn’t rest properly without it. “Where is it?”

“The Bonacieux house, in my room. Constance knows it, she’ll get it for you.”

Aramis whistled softly. “Sadly, I will be very busy tending to you, so I shan’t be able to go.”

“You’re just afraid of getting slapped again,” d'Artagnan muttered, and then bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

“She has a mighty arm, your landlady,” Aramis said lightly, glancing up for Athos’ attention. He nodded quietly. He’d seen it.

“I’ll go,” Porthos offered. “She might not slap me.”

“Good luck,” Aramis told him. “We’ll be at the garrison.”

Porthos nodded, glancing at d'Artagnan. “Quick as I can,” he promised. d'Artagnan smiled gratefully and Porthos headed off.

“Come on,” Athos said with a sigh, turning to d'Artagnan. “Let’s get you back to the garrison.”

He reached for d'Artagnan’s arm; d'Artagnan recoiled so sharply he almost over balanced. “I don’t need help,” he said when he was steady again.

“I beg to differ.”

Athos reached for him again; d'Artagnan backed away again. “Don’t. I’m fine.”

“Don’t,” Aramis said under his breath. He didn’t know exactly what was happening, but d'Artagnan was distressed and getting worse the longer they stood here, and he didn’t want Athos making it worse.

Athos scowled, studying d'Artagnan. “Your knees buckle even once, you’re taking my help.”

d'Artagnan turned, heading back into the tunnels. His knees were locked straight as he walked.

Aramis rolled his eyes. “Brilliant, Athos, give him a stagger as well.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing serious physically. Mentally, emotionally…” He shook his head. “He’s too tired for me to make much out of it. I’ll need to try again once he’s rested. Luckily, he’ll need tending.”

They followed d'Artagnan through the tunnels and out into a street. d'Artagnan didn’t fall, but he was stumbling by the time they reached the garrison. Aramis swept him inside and into his own room without stopping to acknowledge anyone they passed; Athos, behind him, had to deal with all of that.

d'Artagnan sank onto the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his hands dangle. “Now what?” he asked quietly.

“I’d like to look at your wrists, if I may.” He wasn't always this careful, this wary, but d'Artagnan had been restrained and Aramis wasn't going to touch him without permission. Not until he was a little steadier.

d'Artagnan studied them for a moment. “Yes.”

“Thank you.” Aramis settled on the floor in front of him, carefully rolling up the sleeves to examine the torn flesh. “Well, that’s not so bad,” he murmured, sending a thread of power into it. He couldn’t risk doing too much, or d'Artagnan might notice, but he soothed some of the pain and started the healing process going.

He washed and wrapped the wrists carefully, keeping one hand on d'Artagnan at all times to keep the pain down. d'Artagnan was tense and unhappy, but he didn’t object at any point. He had his eyes closed and his lips were moving silently by the time Aramis finished.

“d'Artagnan,” he murmured. “May I look at your ribs?”

d'Artagnan’s eyes flickered open and he blinked once or twice. “What?”

“Ribs,” Aramis repeated. “You’re protecting them.”

d'Artagnan looked down at his own hunched posture. “Yes,” he said eventually.

“Focus,” Aramis said softly, passing just a little energy to him to help. “May I look at them?”

d'Artagnan bit his lip. More blood, and Aramis twitched with the need to take care of it. “Where’s Porthos?”

“Not here yet. He won’t be long. Ribs?”

“They aren’t that bad…”

“Then this won’t take long.”

d'Artagnan gave up, leaning carefully back to rest on his hands. Aramis moved to sit on the edge of the bed, carefully raising d'Artagnan’s tunic to study him. “You’ll be stiff for a while,” he murmured, running one hand lightly over the rising bruises. “Turn,” he added, and d'Artagnan leaned to one side enough for Aramis to see his back.

One rib cracked in the back – Aramis strengthened it – and more bruising. He sent gentle heat into d'Artagnan, relaxing the muscles and easing the strain. The bruises he left alone – they were inconvenient, but not dangerous, and no matter how much he wanted to help d'Artagnan he couldn’t risk raising any suspicions. The boy was too clever not to notice if the bruising suddenly vanished. The pain would be minimal now that he'd eased the muscles.

Someone knocked at the door; Aramis glanced over without letting go of d'Artagnan. “Who’s there?”

“ S’me,” Porthos answered. d'Artagnan looked up eagerly, shifting to pull his tunic down. Aramis sat back, calling Porthos to come in.

d'Artagnan was already reaching out before Porthos even got inside; chuckling faintly, he pulled a small pouch from his belt. “Madame Bonacieux kept it on her to keep it safe from her husband,” he said, passing over the pouch.

d'Artagnan dropped it.

“Sorry,” he muttered, staring down at it. Aramis couldn’t read his expression, but he thought maybe he looked surprised. “Gripped it wrong.”

Aramis leaned down to scoop it up, opening the pouch. “Hand,” he ordered, and when d'Artagnan held out his hand he tipped the rosary carefully out. d'Artagnan’s fingers closed around it and Aramis could feel him relax from a foot away.

“Do you want me to pray with you?” he offered quietly, tucking the pouch absently into his pocket. d'Artagnan blinked at him, frowning, and he added, “Some people like to pray alone, some people like to pray with others.” 

“An’ if you want to pray with someone, Aramis’s your best bet,” Porthos added.

d'Artagnan shook his head slowly. “I haven’t – prayed with others in a long time. And I pray in Gascon, mostly. Thank you, though.”

“Of course.” Aramis rested one hand on the boy's shoulder as he stood, thumb brushing the side of his neck, checking one last time for any damage he’d missed. Nothing; only exhaustion. “Food or sleep?”

“Sleep. Please.”

“Good. Get some rest. When you’re ready, come down to the courtyard, we’ll get you fed.”

d'Artagnan nodded. His fingers were moving restlessly over the beads. “Thank you.”

Aramis bowed lightly. “Of course. If you need anything else, call out. Someone will be around.” He turned, waving Porthos to leave.

Athos was waiting outside, hat tipped down over his eyes. “Well?” he asked when they appeared.

“He’s sleeping, or he will be shortly. Wrapped his wrists, eased his muscles, cleared up a cracked rib. He’ll be sore. I think he was a lot closer to the explosion than we were.” Glancing around, he added, “Anyone need me?”

Athos shook his head. “Bruises. Nothing I would waste your talents on, and they’ll heal once I sleep anyway.”

“I’m fine,” Porthos agreed. “Should worry about him.”

Aramis nodded, stretching tiredly. Small injuries like d'Artagnan’s didn’t tire him, but they did make him a little fuzzy. “I should eat. One of you stay nearby? I promised d'Artagnan we wouldn’t go far.”

“I will,” Athos agreed. Porthos nodded, steering Aramis down towards the courtyard so they could eat.

 

Inside, d'Artagnan’s fingers moved along the beads, soaking in the familiar feelings, using them as the foundation to rebuild on. He could feel Aramis and Porthos moving away, and Athos staying where he was, calm patience and determination.

He hadn't been so drained in a long time. He was learning Paris, learning how to use the city and the Musketeers in his shields, but away from everything and everyone he knew he'd had a lot of trouble. The Chatelet had been awful, far worse than he'd been expecting; the sheer weight of grief and anger and fear and guilt and _pain_ had almost brought him to his knees when they dragged him in. The manacles on his wrists were well used, and he'd had to concentrate to keep from feeling the noose slide shut around his neck. He'd been forced to weave thick shields far sooner than he'd been expecting to. 

Vadim was known to accept those with Abilities into his gang, despite the restrictions imposed by the law; without knowing if anyone there could read him, and to protect himself, d'Artagnan had expected to need shields. The day and night in the Chatelet first had drained him badly, and keeping the shields in place while with Vadim was worse. It meant he'd read blank to anyone who was trying to Read him, but there were some naturally shielded people, it shouldn't have raised suspicions on its' own.

The downside of creating and maintaining such tight shields, though, was that once they went down, it was almost impossible to get any kind of shield back up. The rosary beads helped. They were an heirloom, and they had been his mother's; d'Artagnan couldn't remember a time he hadn't known the feel of the beads in his fingers. Holding them gave him a sense of peace and made it easier to block everything else out. He started murmuring the prayers, concentrating on his breathing and on the feeling of _home_ and _safety_ the beads gave him.

He fell asleep at some point and woke to a wave of concern breaking over him. He shoved Aramis' hand away from his, scrambling to sit up.

"My apologies," Aramis murmured. "I didn't mean to wake you. I wanted to check your wrists."

d'Artagnan nodded. "Yes. Just let me wake up."

"You can go back to sleep, I don't need you to be awake for this."

"No. I'm hungry now."

"A good sign," Aramis said brightly. d'Artagnan blinked, wondering vaguely why Aramis was irritated, and why he was hiding it. "How do you feel?"

"Grimy. Can I wash up?"

"Mind your bandages, but yes. There's clean water at your door."

d'Artagnan wrapped his rosary around his wrist absentmindedly, crossing to pick up the bucket. He splashed his face and ran handfuls of water through his hair while answering Aramis’ questions about his general health. He badly wanted a proper bath, but this would do for now.

Drawing on the peace he'd found last night, he pulled a shield into place against Aramis' touch. "I'm ready."

 

Aramis slumped at the table, waving to Serge. "d'Artagnan's on his way down."

“Did you find out what you wanted?” Athos asked.

“He woke up before I could.” Aramis laid his hands on the table in front of himself, studying the palms.

"How is he?" Porthos asked.

Aramis didn't answer, staring at his hands. Athos frowned, leaning forward. "Aramis."

Aramis startled. "What?"

"You all right?" Porthos asked.

Aramis frowned thoughtfully at him, holding out a hand. Porthos stripped off his glove without hesitation, clasping his hand. They tried not to touch Aramis unless he initiated it, but they knew the signs; sometimes he _needed_ to touch someone, though he'd never been able to properly explain why.

"I'm fine," Aramis said belatedly, staring at their clasped hands.

"And the boy?"

"The boy," he echoed softly.

Athos shifted so he could see the dorm entrance. "Talk. And talk quickly, before he comes down."

Aramis grimaced. "Yesterday when I read him, I Saw minor injuries, exhaustion, fear, and a fixation on that rosary."

"More or less what I'd expect after a mission like that one," Athos agreed.

"Today there are injuries and nothing else."

Porthos shook his head. "What do you mean?"

"He's _blocking_ me." The outraged tone might have been funny, in other circumstances.

Athos leaned forward, one eye still on the door d'Artagnan would use. "Deliberately?"

Aramis shook his head. "I can't say for certain. Some people do have strong natural shields; it's not classed as an Ability, since most of them never even know about it. If we had a telepath or an empath in the garrison, we could find out for sure. But it's far beyond my abilities."

Athos straightened as d'Artagnan emerged from the dorm. "Say nothing, either of you," he murmured. "We will wait and see. Good afternoon," he added more loudly.

"Good afternoon," d'Artagnan replied, sitting when Porthos waved at a seat.

"Serge is bringing you something to eat," Athos told him. "And then we will make things right with M Bonacieux."

"Thank you," d'Artagnan said in surprise.

Porthos grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, lad, soon as that's over he's planning to beat you at swords again."

"Oh, good. That's more like normal." d'Artagnan grinned at Athos' look, turning to thank Serge as he brought a tray of food.

Aramis caught Athos' eye, and he shrugged. There was nothing to do but wait and see what happened.


	3. Commodities

Athos tried to get between Porthos and d'Artagnan, but he was too late. d'Artagnan knelt beside Porthos, studying the wound with wide eyes. “Porthos?”

“d'Artagnan, move,” Aramis said briskly, dropping to sit behind Porthos.

“Watch Bonnaire,” Athos told him, and when d'Artagnan was far enough away he hunkered to join the others in conversation.

Aramis glanced up at him. One hand was plastered to the back of Porthos’ neck. “I need to take care of it one way or the other. And quickly.”

“d'Artagnan saw the wound,” Athos reminded him. “Bonnaire, too.”

“He’d turn you in, Bonnaire would.” Porthos’ voice was clear. Aramis must have been blocking the pain.

“Don’t care,” Aramis said shortly. A hundred different lectures on Aramis’ Ability passed through Athos’ mind; blocking pain but doing nothing to heal the injury went against all of Aramis’ instincts, and he couldn’t fight it for long.

“We’ll find a village.”

“No time.” Aramis looked up again, voice strained. “Sew or heal, fast.”

Athos pushed to his feet. He’d have walked away, but he caught d'Artagnan’s eyes as he turned away. The boy looked confused and scared, and Athos felt himself give in.

d'Artagnan’s expression altered, but he didn’t speak. Athos turned back to the others. “I know a place. Get it stabilised and we’ll go. It’s not far from here.”

Returning to the house was harder, and easier, than he expected. Easier because the house was shut up and empty; it was so unlike his old home that it might as well be another building entirely.

Harder, because he knew that once Porthos was dealt with, he’d be facing some questions.

He locked Bonnaire in the empty pantry and sent d'Artagnan to take care of the horses. By the time he got back to the dining room, Porthos was already sitting up, talking quietly as Aramis sunk a neat line of stitches into the back of his shoulder.

“This should be enough to fool d'Artagnan and Bonnaire,” Aramis said without looking up. “Come around here and hold him steady for me.”

Athos obediently came around to Aramis’ side, letting the other man position his hand where he needed it. Aramis pressed his own hand flat against Porthos’ lower back, concentrating intently.

“You’ll have to pretend to be hurt,” Athos pointed out.

“Pain I can fake,” Porthos murmured. “Where’s the boy?”

“Taking care of the horses.”

“How’d you know this place was here?”

Athos took a deep breath. “I own it.”

Aramis faltered, lifting the needle away from Porthos’ back. “You are the Comte de la Fere.” Athos bowed. “A son of the nobility.”

“And you gave it up for the Musketeers?”

“It seemed the thing to do at the time.”

d'Artagnan tapped on the doorframe, staying just outside the door. “Horses are dealt with,” he said quietly.

“Thank you,” Athos said, stepping slightly to the side.

d'Artagnan smiled. “Porthos. How are you feeling?”

“Fine and fit.”

“It wasn’t as bad as it looked once it was cleaned up,” Aramis said briskly. “He’ll be fine in a day or two.” To Athos, he added, “You can let go now, thank you.”

Athos stepped away to join d'Artagnan. “We should see what supplies we have. We’ll have to feed Bonnaire something, as well.”

“I brought the saddle bags in, but I’ve no idea what’s in the cart.”

“Let’s go and find out. You two,” he added to Aramis and Porthos, “take a rest.”

 

The next morning Maria Bonnaire arrived, feigning weakness to try and draw them in. d'Artagnan shook his head, holding Bonnaire back with one hand. “She’s faking. Climb down, madame.”

“Maria!” Bonnaire protested as she dismounted, scowling, and handed her weapon to d'Artagnan. “How could you try and fool our hosts?” More quietly, he added “And fail so badly?”

“How did you know?” Aramis murmured to d'Artagnan.

“If that woman told me grass was green I would check for myself.”

They escorted the couple inside, and promptly had to wrestle Porthos off Bonnaire. d'Artagnan missed most of the conversation, trying to deal with the waves of rage without succumbing himself.

“Do you know why they’re shackled?” Porthos was saying when d'Artagnan started paying attention again. “To stop ‘em jumping overboard. That’s better than watching your friends, your family, your _children_ die of starvation and sickness…”

d'Artagnan backed away, swallowing against the rage and misery pouring out of Porthos. First this house, making Athos so complicated, rage and fear and guilt and love all bound up together; now this, making Porthos angry enough to kill and hurt enough to die.

He lost himself in the grounds for a while, eventually finding Athos under a single tree on the edge of a field. The guilt and grief were so sharp he was afraid to get too near; he called from a distance instead, relying on Athos’ unwillingness to show emotion. “What are you doing?”

Athos turned, forcing a semblance of calm. It didn’t hide much, but it made things a little easier for d'Artagnan. “I need to see someone in the village.”

“Let me come with you,” d'Artagnan offered, suddenly very sure Athos shouldn’t be left alone. “You haven’t been yourself since we got to this place.”

Athos ignored the offer, striding away. “Keep an eye on Porthos. _Don’t_ leave him alone with Bonnaire.”

“At least tell me where you’re going,” d'Artagnan tried again.

“Just get back on the road as soon as you can. Get Bonnaire to Paris!”

He vanished into the distance. d'Artagnan grimaced, running a thumb over the beads at his wrist, allowing himself a minute to calm. It wouldn’t be enough if Porthos was still worked up, but it would help.

He headed back to the house and passed on the orders, ignoring the Bonnaires as best he could. He hadn’t much liked either of them before the revelations of his true business; now he thought he could almost see something dark and uncaring seeping out of them, reaching out for someone else to infect.

“We should wait for Athos,” Porthos said quietly.

Aramis shook his head. “He’ll meet us when he’s ready.”

“Porthos is right, we should wait,” d'Artagnan said, one step above begging.

“You should trust Athos to handle his own affairs.” That was one step above chiding. “We’re leaving now.”

d'Artagnan trailed the others out, staring back at the house. He wasn’t precognitive, never had been, but this – the thought of leaving Athos alone here chilled his blood.

“d'Artagnan, let’s go,” Aramis said firmly. Reluctantly, d'Artagnan mounted and followed them towards Paris.

 

Athos stirred after a long time, unsure of where he was and what was happening. Smoke from the house was still drifting past, but he couldn’t hear any flames; either they were far enough away that it didn’t carry, or it had burned itself out.

He couldn’t remember much of what had happened. Anne had been there, and there was fire, and then d'Artagnan – d'Artagnan, who should be in Paris, but was somehow there to pull him out of the burning house. Athos was lying on a rough pallet in the shelter of a row of bushes, and that had to be d'Artagnan’s work too.

Athos sat up, cradling his head. The brief rest had been enough. He was exhausted and filthy and heartsick, but the burnt bruise on his jaw was gone as though it had never been and his hangover had cleared.

d'Artagnan was huddled at the base of a tree some distance away, cloak pulled tightly around himself. He must have seen Athos move, but he didn’t react; not until Athos reached towards him, and then he pulled back with a flinch. “Don’t.”

“Are you injured?” Athos asked quietly.

“No. I’m fine.”

Athos looked around. They were on the edge of the grounds, as far from Anne’s tree as they could get without leaving the property. The house was a ruin. If it hadn’t burned out yet, it would soon. “How did we get here?”

“I dragged you.” d'Artagnan’s voice was flat and empty. “We needed to get out of the smoke, and you stopped walking.”

“Thank you,” Athos murmured. He should have been sore, but the rest had taken care of that, too. “d'Artagnan –“

“I’m not hurt.”

“I don’t believe you.”

d'Artagnan unfolded himself in one movement, climbing to his feet. “Your wife’s alive.”

“Yes,” Athos agreed, trying to remember exactly what he’d said after d'Artagnan pulled him from the building.

“She tried to kill you.”

“Yes.”

d'Artagnan took a breath. “I saw her leaving; I didn’t chase her, I was worried about you, but I saw her. And I think – I think I’ve seen her before.”

“Seen her,” Athos repeated. “Where?”

“The first night I spent in Paris. There was a woman, at the inn – she murdered a Spaniard and framed me for it.”

“Why?”

“I was there, I suppose?”

“It certainly sounds like Anne,” he muttered.

“I can’t be sure,” d'Artagnan said again. “She was too far, it was dark, I was worried for you – but I think it was her.”

“Have you seen her since?”

“No. But…” He hesitated before continuing quickly, “There were flowers, on my bed at the Bonacieux house. Forget me nots. I think they came from her.”

Athos turned away, concentrating hard to keep from punching the tree. “They came from her,” he agreed, “and she is my wife. Those were her flowers.”

d'Artagnan nodded. “If I see her again…”

“If you see her again,” Athos said quietly, “play her game. Find out what she wants. And bring it to me. Please.”

“Of course.”

Athos studied him for a minute. Whatever was wrong with him a few minutes ago had cleared; he was calm and clear eyed, and there was certainly no pain when he moved. “Can you ride?”

“Yes. I took your horse out of the stable; I’ll go and get him.”

He turned away; Athos halted him with an outstretched hand, careful not to touch him. His touch issues seemed to come and go, but they’d gotten in the habit of not touching him if they could help it. “d'Artagnan. Thank you for saving me.”

d'Artagnan smiled faintly. “Always.”

 

Sometimes, standing as Captain Treville’s guard during his meetings with the king was a quiet, easy job. Sometimes it was a long, tedious exercise in self control. Today’s meeting had been the latter. The Cardinal was determined to score every point he could, challenging everything Treville said, drawing the meeting out far longer than he needed to; the sun had almost set. If Louis hadn’t become bored, they might still be there now.

Treville took pity on Athos, dismissing him without making him return to the garrison first. Athos thanked him politely and headed for his rooms, looking forward to the chance to rest. Aramis and Porthos wouldn’t be expecting him tonight.

As far he knew, only Captain Treville, Porthos and Aramis knew where his rooms were, so he was surprised to find d'Artagnan leaning against a stall halfway along the road. He’d probably been there for a while, if the glares he was ignoring from the stall owner were any indication.

Athos didn’t stop or slow down, but he nodded as he passed. d'Artagnan pushed away from the stall, flipped the owner a coin and fell into step with Athos. “Was it awful?”

“Moderately awful. The Cardinal was in a good mood. How did you know where I live?”

“Porthos told me.” Athos turned away to open his door, and d'Artagnan continued “Should I – I can leave.”

“No.” Athos firmly squashed the irritation he was feeling. “Few people know, but you may come as you please. Is there something you need?”

d'Artagnan hesitated. “You’re tired. It’s nothing important.”

“Come in,” Athos said firmly. “Let me get changed, and then we can talk.” d'Artagnan obeyed, perching warily on the edge of the bed while Athos cleaned up and changed. 

“Now.” He found an unopened bottle, offering it to d'Artagnan. “What’s on your mind?”

d'Artagnan shook his head at the bottle, which surprised Athos. The Gascon rarely got drunk, but he usually joined in, at least a little. “Is something wrong?” he asked, setting the bottle aside unopened.

“No,” d'Artagnan said, too quickly to be honest. “No, I just – I was curious, but this isn’t the time.”

“Curious about what?”

“About de la Fere. I’ve never been in the home of a Comte before.”

“Stay with the Musketeers, you’ll see plenty,” Athos murmured, trying to contain the confused emotions the thought of his former home always brought up.

d'Artagnan looked away. “I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.”

“If it were still standing I would tell you you could go and look to your hearts’ content. Someone probably should have been enjoying it these past years.”

“Five years.”

Athos nodded. He badly wanted a drink, but he wouldn’t if d'Artagnan wasn’t. “Five years.”

“What was it like, growing up there?”

“What was it like growing up in Gascony?”

d'Artagnan reached for the bottle, opening it and taking a couple of sips. “Hard work, mostly.”

“Hard work, mostly,” Athos echoed, accepting the bottle and taking a long drink.

d'Artagnan nodded. “It’s not as cold in the winter. More dangerous, though, I think; if you’re outside when the weather gets bad…”

“Not a danger one often faces in Paris,” Athos agreed. “There are always people here.”

“Always,” d'Artagnan repeated, and something in his voice made Athos look up sharply. He looked normal, though, accepting the bottle for another sip.

Athos took the bottle back, sighing. “De le Fere is not especially large, as estates go. We had between fifteen and twenty staff. My valet was also the equerry, the stable boy helped the groundskeepers, Anne’s maid also served at table if we were hosting.”

“My father employed a headman, four field workers, a dairy maid and a boy to help where needed.”

Turn and turn about, they talked about their past. Athos lost track after a while; several times d'Artagnan said gently, “You’ve told me that already.” The bottle disappeared, followed by a second.

“You were drunk,” d'Artagnan said softly, playing with the third bottle. “After we left with the Bonnaires, you went to town. You came back and you got drunk.”

“Remi was dead,” Athos agreed vaguely, reaching for the bottle.

d'Artagnan let him take it. “Did you pass out?”

“Maybe. Not for long, though.” He looked up expectantly.

“I’ve never drunk enough to pass out.”

“Never?”

“I don’t drink enough to get drunk.”

Athos considered the bottle. “I may be drunk now,” he announced.

“Yes, I think you might. What happened when you woke up?”

Athos frowned, trying to think past the haze of alcohol. “Is this important, d'Artagnan?”

“It doesn’t have to be now.”

In other words, _yes_. He concentrated, scrubbing his face. “The house was burning when I woke. Anne was there. I thought – I’d seen her everywhere, the whole time we were there. I didn’t know she was real, at first.” He shook his head. “I remember little of what we said. She was angry, hurt. And then you, outside.”

“And then me,” d'Artagnan echoed softly.

“Is that what you need?”

d'Artagnan flinched. “I can’t tell you why.”

“I don’t need _why_. I need _what_. You’ll tell me _why_ , eventually. I can wait.”

“Athos…”

“I can wait. Tell me what you need.”

He swallowed, visibly. “The house; tell me about the house.”

 

d'Artagnan waited until he was sure Athos was asleep, dragging a blanket over him and stacking the empty bottles out of the way before leaving. It was late; he’d have to sneak back into the Bonacieux house, M Bonacieux would not be amused to see him. Or he could go to the church Aramis had shown him. He’d been back several times now, most of the priests simply ignored him.

He was already running fingers over his rosary, he realised suddenly. That answered that, then. At the end of the street he turned to head towards the church.

It matched. Everything Athos said, the way he described the house at de la Fere, it was almost exactly the way d'Artagnan would have. All the feelings, tied up in that house, tied up in his wife. It was all the same. How could it possibly...

He'd still been able to sense Athos for a while after they left. He often kept himself aware of Athos, and of Porthos and Aramis; it helped, the same way the beads did, helping him keep his mental footing when the noise of Paris got to be too much for him. But he thought he'd been too far from de la Fere when he felt the urge to return, the pain and uncertainty that left him sure Athos needed help.

And everything, everything Athos described he had already sensed.

How was it possible?

 

Treville loved his men. They were the best in France, they fought with honour and determination, he trusted each of them with far more than just the king’s life. There were no men in the world he’d rather align himself with.

He found he had to remind himself of that before he could continue the conversation.

“The plan,” he said carefully, “was to train the boy and then find him a place in another regiment. One without our – particular requirements.” Even here, alone in his office with the man he trusted more than any in the world, he had to be careful what he said.

Athos nodded. “That was the plan.”

“It was your plan.”

“Yes.”

“I tried to say no, and you and your friends camped out here until I agreed.”

“Yes.”

“And now you want a different plan.”

“Yes.”

_Treville loved his men._

“Why, exactly,” he said carefully, “do you suddenly think he might be able to meet our requirements?”

Athos moved, wandering around the office, poking at damp spots on the wall. “The boy has a gift for reading people. He’s intuitive.”

Treville eyed him. “And rather touch shy, I understand.”

“That seems to come and go. It’s mostly when he’s tired. Or overstressed.”

Of course Athos would recognise that. Aramis went the same way, sometimes; it was common among those with active mental Abilities.

“And you believe he could meet our requirements?”

“I believe there’s a chance, yes.”

“Your friends?”

“I haven’t spoken to them about it. I wanted to get your approval first. And if I’m wrong…” Athos shrugged. “It’s not a thing to bring up unless one is sure. I don’t want them treating him any differently.”

_Treville loved his men._

“Is the boy here at the garrison?”

“Training with Porthos. His hand to hand is substantially weaker than his other skills. Perhaps for obvious reasons.”

“Call him up.”

Athos stepped out of the office, reappearing a few minutes later with d'Artagnan. The boy was flushed. Porthos obviously wasn’t going easy on him.

“d'Artagnan,” Treville said, shuffling some parchment on his desk without looking at it. “Athos and I have just been discussing your training.”

“Yes, sir?” d'Artagnan said politely.

“He feels you are on your way to meeting our requirements.”

d'Artagnan shot a quick look at Athos. “I’m honoured he thinks so, sir.”

Treville put the parchments down, looking up to meet d'Artagnan’s eyes. “The Musketeer regiment has a requirement no other regiment does, one that no man is told about until he passes it. Less than one in five hundred men will pass it. Failing to do so is no reflection on your skills or determination, and those who fail are found places in other regiments. Do you understand?”

“I do,” d'Artagnan agreed.

“Good. Say nothing of this conversation to anyone else. Athos will continue to observe you on my behalf.”

d'Artagnan tipped his head towards Athos. “Thank you. Both. I’m very grateful for the chance.”

“Return to your training,” Treville said briskly. d'Artagnan faltered, and Treville said patiently "Yes?"

"Captain..." d'Artagnan took a deep breath. "What if I don't wish to join another regiment?"

"There's no negotiation on our requirement," Treville warned him. "No exceptions, not for anyone, not for any reason. You pass it or you are not a Musketeer."

"I understand that," he said quickly. "But I would rather be an apprentice Musketeer all my life than captain any other regiment."

Treville had to hide a smile at how earnest the boy was. Athos, behind him and out of his field of view, had no such restraint.

"It's a fine sentiment," Treville said kindly. "But you're young, d'Artagnan, and such words come easy to the young."

"I mean it," d'Artagnan insisted.

"I'm sure you do. Now, here, in this office. In two years, five, twenty..." He shrugged.

"This is not a matter that needs solving right now," Athos pointed out. "You have other requirements to meet yet, d'Artagnan, and I believe Porthos is waiting to help you with one of them as we speak."

"Yes," d'Artagnan said obediently. "Thank you, Captain." Treville waved him off and d'Artagnan bowed, grinning at Athos on his way out.

Treville watched Athos watch him go. “You’re sure about this?”

“Very.” Athos was still watching the door. “I wish I weren’t.”

“Wish you weren’t?”

Athos glanced over at him. “It’s not an easy life.”

“Better with others who understand you.”

“Perhaps.”

Treville rolled his eyes. “Go observe, Athos.”

“Sir,” Athos agreed, tipping his hat and heading out.

Treville managed four minutes of work before someone else knocked on his door. Sighing, he sat back in his chair. “Yes?”

Aramis stepped in, closing the door behind himself and taking his hat off. “Captain.”

_Treville loved his men._

“Aramis. How can I help you?”

“I wanted to speak with you about d'Artagnan.”

“Did you.”

“I believe he might have a place here.”

“Do you. What makes you say that?”

“Call it healer’s intuition.”

“I can think of some things to call it,” Treville said under his breath. Louder, he added “I will take your words under careful advisement, Aramis.”

“The boy is skilled, Captain,” Aramis pushed.

“Under. Advisement. Aramis,” Treville repeated evenly. “Your observations are appreciated, and I certainly hope you’ll come to me with any other insights you might have.”

Aramis studied him for a moment. “Has someone else spoken to you on this matter?”

“Don’t you have training to take part in?”

Aramis nodded slowly. “Of course.” Pulling his hat back on, he nodded once before turning away.

Treville sighed, pulled his parchment back towards himself and continued his work.


	4. The Good Soldier

“Have you forgotten about the massacre at Savoy?”

D’Artagnan blinked at the question. Aramis had been distracted for nearly two days, since they’d heard about the visit from the Duke of Savoy, but d'Artagnan hadn’t been able to figure out why. There was an undercurrent, something that made him think of finding Cornet’s body in that snowy forest, but nothing he could pin down.

“What massacre?” he murmured to Athos.

“Later.”

“Athos…”

“Later,” Athos repeated, lifting his chin towards the approaching carriage.

The Duke was surprisingly rude, but d'Artagnan tuned it out, focused on a sudden flare of – something. Anger, cold and implacable, burning when the Duke climbed out of his carriage. d'Artagnan took a step forward, concentrating on it, trying to figure out where it was coming from. There shouldn’t be anyone close enough for him to sense, no one but the servants surrounding the King.

A shot fired from the bushes and one of the Duke’s men fell. d'Artagnan was moving before he’d thought about it, distantly aware that Athos and Aramis were with him, Treville and Porthos rallying the Musketeers and guards to protect the royalty. He ignored it all, focused on the faint thread of the shooter.

Athos and Aramis split off at some point, covering other paths. d'Artagnan ignored them, trying to follow a fading thread, until a flare from Aramis almost tripped him up. Recovering, he hesitated for a moment, filtering out the worst of it and checking on the others. As he became more used to the Musketeers, he could sense them at a greater distance; Athos and Porthos were still searching, getting more frustrated by the minute but not ready to give up.

Aramis, though – d'Artagnan could barely get a handle on him, he was so confused. Angry, confused, terrified. d'Artagnan followed the feelings, slipping silently into the colonnade, listening for only a moment before making himself known. “Care to tell me what’s going on?”

Aramis was suddenly frantic. The other man, the shooter, was mostly resigned, and d'Artagnan dismissed him, watching Aramis.

“Marsac’s an old friend.”

“An old friend who just tried to kill the Duke of Savoy.” 

“Hear him out. Marsac was one of the best soldiers in the regiment.”

That surprised d'Artagnan. There was nothing of the feelings he associated with Musketeers in this broken man. “He’s a Musketeer?”

“He was.”

“We were brothers once,” Marsac added. “For the sake of our old friendship, let me prove what I know.”

He was desperate for Aramis to listen. d'Artagnan looked away, damping the feelings. He’d Read enough, and the sense of him was making d'Artagnan feel grimy.

Aramis caught his eye, gesturing to one side. d'Artagnan joined him, keeping one eye on Marsac.

“I need you to keep quiet about this, for now,” Aramis murmured.

“Have you gone mad?” d'Artagnan blurted. He couldn’t understand the sheer guilt Aramis was carrying.

“Possibly, but…I owe him my life.”

And he intended to honour the debt, whatever it cost him. d'Artagnan grimaced, silently determined to keep a very close eye on both of them. “If this gets me hanged, I’m going to take it very personally,” he said warningly.

Aramis pressed a hand to his heart in gratitude, turning away to rejoin Marsac. d'Artagnan scowled, watching in silence.

 

Telling d'Artagnan about the massacre had hurt, but the quiet understanding he received in return helped. d'Artagnan didn’t seem to be making any judgments about either of them.

Aramis didn’t blame him for telling the others, either. He shouldn’t have tried to keep it from them in the first place. But Marsac – he was so complicated; five years later and Aramis still couldn’t quite untangle the emotions tied up in the man who had once been his friend. Placing his fate in Athos’ hands was a relief. He trusted the older man to be fair and impartial in a way he knew he himself couldn’t be. Not about this.

The thought of Treville as a traitor – Treville, giving up his own men – made Aramis sick. But once he’d heard it, he couldn’t let it go. He wanted to believe, like the others did, that Treville was innocent, being framed. But it made sense, in a terrible way. Treville knew their orders; Treville had sent them out himself.

“Don’t you want revenge?” Marsac asked.

“I want justice,” Aramis told him, and it was true. But more and more, he thought that Treville would help him find that justice.

Athos took Marsac back to the Bonacieux house and Aramis returned to the garrison, settling at the table. He knew he should practise, move around, shake loose the memories of Savoy that were threatening to overwhelm him. He couldn’t bring himself to stand, though, too aware of Treville watching him from the walkway above.

Treville left, after a time, accompanying Porthos and Athos to the palace. Aramis waited until the yard was busy, Musketeers passing in all directions, to slip up the stairs. He’d never paid much attention to Treville’s filing system, but after a moment he grasped it and started searching for what he needed.

Nothing. Nothing relating to Savoy; nothing about the training mission, the orders, the slaughter. The Musketeers’ files all carried a _Killed in Action_ notation, but there were no details.

At the Bonacieux house, the others listened but didn’t seem especially convinced. Aramis, despite himself, was certain now that Treville had had something to do with this. If he hadn’t planned it, he’d known about it somehow.

d'Artagnan chased him when he left the house, stopping him in the yard. “Aramis.”

“What, d'Artagnan?”

d'Artagnan was holding himself stiffly, carefully not touching Aramis or coming too near him. “You need to calm down.”

“d'Artagnan…”

“Listen to me,” he interrupted. “We’re helping you. Yes? If Treville did this, we want to find out about it. We want your justice. But you need to calm down; we can’t do anything if you’re like this.”

Aramis studied him for a moment before turning away, taking a deep breath and trying to calm down. Athos would probably have told him the same thing if d'Artagnan hadn’t got there first, and he knew it was good advice. That was Musketeer training; head, not heart.

“You’re right,” he said when he felt a little calmer. “My apologies.”

“I know this is painful,” d'Artagnan said softly, and Aramis was almost certain he really did know. “I’m sorry for that.”

Aramis forced a smile. “It’s good for a man to face his demons.”

“So long as he doesn’t try and face them alone,” d'Artagnan said, tone faintly warning.

“I wouldn’t dare, my friend,” Aramis assured him, clapping a hand to the back of d'Artagnan’s neck. The boy was shielding still, watching Aramis as if he had no idea what he was doing, and Aramis sighed gently, letting go. “I wouldn’t dare.”

 

Cluzet dealt with, d'Artagnan followed the others back to the garrison. He slowed as they approached; Aramis was somewhere inside, and he was grieving, sharp and painful.

“What is it?” Athos asked, glancing back at d'Artagnan.

“Nothing,” d'Artagnan said absently.

“Something,” Athos corrected him.

Gunshots echoed from the armoury and d'Artagnan took off at a run. Athos was on his heels when he came to an abrupt halt in the doorway.

Treville waved off their concern. Athos nudged d'Artagnan to one side, crossing to crouch beside Aramis. “Aramis.”

Aramis shook his head slowly. “He didn’t want – I didn’t save him.”

“He didn’t want to be saved,” Athos agreed.

d'Artagnan joined them, kneeling on Aramis’ other side. “He was tired,” he said gently. “You know that. Let him go, Aramis. I’ll take care of him.”

“You promise?” Aramis murmured.

“I promise. I know what he means to you.” He wouldn’t enjoy it, but he wouldn’t have to deal with any of Marsac’s emotions anymore, and it was little enough price to pay to help Aramis.

Aramis frowned suddenly, studying him. “You – can you?”

“Yes.” d'Artagnan refused to acknowledge what he thought Aramis meant; he could worry about it later. “Let go.”

Athos had to help, in the end, but they got him to let go of Marsac. d'Artagnan got the three nearest Musketeers – newer ones, they wouldn’t know who Marsac was – and had them help him take care of the body. When they were finished, he sent them away and sat, waiting.

Aramis appeared more than an hour later, slowly approaching the low bench, studying Marsac. Clean and in new clothes, there was no sign of the wound that had killed him. d'Artagnan stayed where he was, eyes averted as Aramis stared at the body for a long time.

“He saved my life,” he said eventually.

“Yes, you told me.”

“No.” Aramis looked up. d'Artagnan knew what he was going to do an instant before he did it; he started to speak, but Aramis said calmly, “He copied my Ability and used it to save my life.”

“Aramis,” d'Artagnan said warningly. “You’re tired, and grieving. Don’t say anything you’ll regret later.”

“Yes, because it’s likely you’ll turn me in, isn’t it?” Aramis agreed. “Marsac’s Ability was to copy that of anyone he touched. It wasn’t something he did often, for fear of being unable to control it – but he saved my life when I would have bled to death.”

“And left you with twenty dead bodies,” d'Artagnan agreed.

“And as the one he left, I think I should decide whether to blame him for it or not.”

d'Artagnan looked away, taking a moment to think. Aramis had made himself very vulnerable, all but placed his life in d'Artagnan’s hands; he had only one way to repay that. “Aramis. Take it from someone who knows. Those dark emotions? They’ll poison you if you let them.”

“I’m not angry with him –“

“Not that. This guilt. This grief. Let it go. You didn’t cause the massacre; you didn’t turn Marsac into what he became. You gave him what he wanted more than anything else. Please. Try and let it go.”

Aramis shuddered, staring at Marsac. “It’s a hard thing.”

“Very. But worth it.” d'Artagnan touched his shoulder lightly. “You face your demons with your friends. Remember?”

“I remember.”

“Good. Don’t forget it.” Hesitating a moment, he added, “This conversation, this stays between us, yes?”

Aramis studied him, frowning. “You have nothing to fear from the Musketeers, d'Artagnan.”

Aramis believed it. That didn’t make it true. “The priest in Lupiac imprisoned children on less evidence than this conversation,” d'Artagnan said quietly. "Worse than imprisoned, sometimes. It stays between us.”

“Would you run?” Curiosity, and something under it that d'Artagnan couldn’t quite read.

“If you make me. Yes.” Much as it would pain him to leave this place, these people, he would leave them if he had to. d'Artagnan’s Ability wasn’t dangerous the way some were, but if he was found, he’d be imprisoned somewhere and never released – or, if he was deemed useful and pliable enough, given to whatever clergyman or spymaster was in favour and used until he burned out.

“There is nothing for you to fear here,” Aramis said again. “But I will do as you ask. For the kindness you showed my friend.”

d'Artagnan glanced at Marsac. “It wasn’t much to do.”

“It was everything. Thank you.”

Aramis turned back to the bench, easing to his knees beside it. d'Artagnan retreated to the corner, sliding down to sit on the floor, freeing his rosary from his wrist and echoing Aramis’ soft prayers.

 

Long after Marsac was buried, after d'Artagnan had returned to the Bonacieux house and Porthos had gone looking for someone to cheat, Aramis sat with Athos in the back of a dim tavern. He hadn’t tried to keep up with the other man’s drinking, but he’d had enough; enough to take the edge off, to make things a little easier and a little gentler.

“Shall I walk you back?” Athos asked, far earlier than he normally would have.

“Thank you,” Aramis agreed. He didn’t much want to be alone tonight, and he knew Athos knew it, and he knew Athos would never mention it.

The night air cleared his mind a little, and he considered as they walked. “Do you ever wonder?”

“About what, specifically?”

“d'Artagnan.”

“What about him?”

“What might happen if he passes the requirement.”

Athos hesitated for the barest second. “Do you know something?”

“I’ve felt nothing new from him since Vadim.” Not quite a lie. He hadn’t felt anything during their conversation.

“Indeed,” Athos murmured. “What do you think might happen?”

“I don’t know. It worries me. Our – the requirement seems to complicate our lives as much as it makes them easier.”

“That’s true,” Athos murmured. “Not something I particularly wish on him. However, if he can pass the requirement, he’s better off with us than on his own.”

“A tricky problem,” Aramis said with a sigh.

“And not one we’ll solve tonight, I think. Come along. I feel the need for a card game, now that Porthos isn’t here to rob me blind.”


	5. Homecoming

Porthos fought the urge to Fade. It wouldn’t help, here, when he was the centre of attention. If he’d had any warning that the guards were coming – well. Wishes never filled an empty belly.

Captain Treville did his best. The others weren’t permitted to testify, but they stood as close to him as they could get, watching him all the time. Porthos half wished they weren’t there. This was hard enough to bear as it was.

The sentence was completely out of order. Porthos distantly registered d'Artagnan’s attempted leap to his side, and he was glad the other two pulled him back. Good heart, that lad, but not much brain.

He didn’t see much of the fight, trussed up as he was, and the blow to the head knocked him unconscious briefly. He was vaguely aware of being dragged through corridors, of scents and sounds and feelings that he _knew_ , but he couldn’t pin down the memory until the sack was unceremoniously pulled from his head and he saw Charon standing in front of him.

Charon, who had once been his brother. As close as Athos and Aramis were now; closer, in some ways. Charon held parts of his past he’d never given to the Musketeers. And then, while he was still reeling from that, Flea. Flea, who’d been his sister, and his lover, and his other half; three parts of a whole, the best thieves in the Court, untouchable, uncatchable.

Until he’d walked away and left them behind.

He didn’t want to leave Paris. He wanted to believe the Musketeers would save him, make this right. But Flea was right; he couldn’t justify putting the Court at risk, and that was what he was doing just by staying there.

He’d leave. But not for long. He hadn’t told Charon that, didn’t want the inevitable argument that would ensue. But if the Musketeers wouldn’t clear him, and the Court couldn’t, he’d have to do it himself.

 

The dead man’s belongings made a pitiful pile on Poupart’s table. Aramis watched as d'Artagnan trailed a finger over them, hovering over a key before settling on what he vaguely recognised as a Nuremberg Egg. d'Artagnan sucked in a breath; Aramis moved to steady him and then hesitated, uncertain. “d'Artagnan?”

“I’m fine,” d'Artagnan murmured, swallowing hard.

“Are you certain?”

“Mmm.”

“Problem?” Poupart asked, coming back towards them.

“Ah, he’s just a little unsteady. First time, you know.” Aramis smiled brightly. “He’s fine.”

Poupart eyed them indifferently. “If he’s ill, take him outside.”

d'Artagnan nodded quickly, taking a step and stumbling against the little table. Aramis clearly saw the flinch when his fingers closed over the key, but he didn’t comment, ushering him out without touching him.

“Are you all right?” he asked as soon as they were outside.

“Yes, I’m fine,” d'Artagnan repeated. “Honestly. Sometimes it’s harder to handle than other times. That’s all.” He slipped the key and the Egg into an inside pocket.

Aramis watched him, mind racing. d'Artagnan had refused to discuss his Ability, or Aramis’ Ability, or listen to any of Aramis’ assurances that he was safe. He still didn’t know about the Musketeers; he just wouldn’t listen. “You can read objects as well as people,” he murmured.

d'Artagnan eyed him. “Yes. Why do you think I wear gloves so often?”

“This is Paris, everyone wears gloves.” Aramis shook his head. "Does it help? The gloves?"

"Sometimes."

“Extraordinary.”

“It’s all just part of the same thing, Aramis.” He started walking away. “People or objects, it doesn’t matter.”

“No,” Aramis said firmly, catching up with him in a handful of strides. “No, I have known a handful of empaths, and almost all could read people _or_ objects. Not both. You, my friend, are something special.”

“Almost all?”

“Ah.” Aramis winced. “Yes. There was one woman I knew of, who could read both people and objects.”

“And?” d'Artagnan prompted.

“She, ah…went mad and jumped into the river. But there’s no proof that it was related to her Ability. It’s quite likely she simply went mad.”

d'Artagnan stopped walking, staring at him. “I’m so glad I can talk to you about these things, Aramis.”

“You can, you know,” Aramis told him. “If you’d only let me –“

“No.” d'Artagnan fished out the Egg. “He wasn’t wearing this when he died, he had it in a pocket, so I can’t tell you anything about his death. But someone in his life did something – everything he knew to be true and right was turned upside down. Very soon before he died.”

“Someone,” Aramis repeated. “Who?”

“Someone close. A parent, or a sibling. A lover, maybe.”

“Well, then, perhaps we should look into the de Mauvosin family. What about the key?”

d'Artagnan shook his head. “It’s something important. He was afraid to let it go. But I don’t know what.” He touched his pocket, eyes distant. “It scared him, whatever it was.”

“I can carry it,” Aramis offered. “If it’s hard for you.”

“No. It’s fine, thank you.”

Aramis nodded slowly. “d'Artagnan, let me…”

“We don’t talk about this,” d'Artagnan said again. “You promised me.”

“I promised not to tell anyone, and I have and will keep that promise. But if you’d let me explain, the Musketeers –“

“ _Aramis_.”

Aramis nodded sadly. He didn’t have d'Artagnan’s skill, but he knew fear when he saw it, and fear could drive a man to do foolish things. “Very well; that is my last word on it. _If_ you will promise me that if you ever do wish to talk, or need help, you will come to me.”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan agreed quickly.

“Then you have my word.” He caught d'Artagnan’s eye. “I am trying to help you.”

“I know you are. I’m quite good at handling this.”

He turned and started off again. Aramis watched him for a moment before sighing and following.

 

Porthos knelt beside Flea, mind racing. She shouldn’t have been hurt; the bullet should have passed right through her. Except that he’d been behind her, hadn’t he…

“Go,” Flea insisted, one hand pressed to the wound. “Stop him.”

Porthos wavered, but he was still a Musketeer and his duty was clear. “I’m coming back,” he told her. “ _Be alive._ ”

“Get going or none of us will be alive!”

Charon was standing in the main chamber, staring at his throne. “Welcome to my empire of dust,” he said without turning.

“You shot Flea.”

“Flea shot herself, I was aiming at you.”

“These people trust you!”

Charon turned, studying him. “These people are _nothing_ , Porthos. You know that, you left them behind.”

“I didn’t want ‘em dead!”

Charon charged him, weapon held high.

It wasn’t even really a fight. Charon was a street fighter, one of the best, but Porthos knew all his moves and he had Musketeer training on top of that. They exchanged a few blows before Porthos put him down hard.

“I’m not like you,” he said, directly into Charon’s ear. “That’s why I left. I’m a Musketeer.”

Athos was shouting, outside the room. Porthos went out to meet them, already dismissing Charon, worried about Flea.

“Porthos!” d'Artagnan shouted.

Porthos stepped aside and Aramis was suddenly there. Charon ran onto the sword, made no effort at all to stop himself.

Aramis jerked backwards, eyes flying to Porthos as he caught Charon. “Porthos…”

“Go find Flea,” Porthos said, voice thick. “You can help her.”

Charon smiled dreamily as the others retreated. “I told you,” he said. “I told you I was getting out.”

“Charon,” Porthos said softly. Charon smiled again, and then he was gone.

Porthos knelt there for a long moment before carefully laying Charon down and standing. Athos was waiting at the end of the corridor; Porthos went to join him, wiping blood from his hands. “We’ll tell them that Charon was killed foiling the plot to destroy the Court.”

“If that’s what you wish,” Athos agreed.

“It’s not what I bloody wish. It’s what they need. They can’t – Charon was their King. He can’t have betrayed them.”

“I understand.”

d'Artagnan was standing guard near where Porthos had left Flea; he straightened as they approached. “We took care of the gunpowder. Aramis is with your friend now. He says it was only a scratch, that she’s fine.”

“Yeah,” Porthos agreed, rubbing his face. He hadn’t thought, when he’d sent them off together; he should have kept d'Artagnan with him, let Aramis work in peace. “Yeah, she’s tough, old Flea. Athos, Charon said there was other gunpowder, spread around the Court. We should round it up; don’t think Treville’d be too happy, we left it in the Court’s hands.”

“Can you arrange that?” Athos asked. 

Porthos followed his gaze; several of Charon’s heavies had appeared at the end of the corridor. “Buzz off,” he snarled at them, and they vanished.

Turning, he called “Aramis?”

“You can come in,” Aramis replied, and they went in to find Flea fixing her dress and Aramis looking satisfied. “Only a scratch,” he said when Porthos looked at him. “It didn’t even require stitching. She’ll be up and about in no time.”

Porthos nodded, turning to Flea. A couple of the heavies had followed them in; he ignored them completely. “Charon died helping us stop that plot,” he told her, eyes locked on hers. “He saved the Court and all her people. I’m sorry, Flea, I’m so sorry.”

Flea nodded, blinking away tears. “He was a good man.”

“He was,” Porthos agreed, and he meant every word. “Flea, my friends and I, we have to take the gunpowder. The Cardinal’ll never let you keep it. You’re Queen now; I need you to make it happen.”

“Queen,” Flea repeated, laughing softly. “Yes, I suppose I am.” Looking over his shoulder, she added “Porthos has the freedom of the Court. Allow him and his friends to do as they will, provided they hurt no one.”

Athos bowed his head. “My thanks. We will endeavour to be as quick as we can.”

“I’d rather you were as safe as you can,” she told him.

“We can do that.”

Porthos glanced around as d'Artagnan left the room; one of the heavies went after him. “Where’s he going?”

“To tell Treville what’s happened, and to find a cart,” Aramis said briskly. “I don’t intend to carry six thousand pounds of gunpowder back to the garrison on my back. Madame, if you have any more problems, please send for me.”

“I will,” Flea promised, watching as they left. Porthos hesitated for a moment before shaking his head sadly and following them, leaving Flea standing alone in her kingdom.

 

d'Artagnan leaned forward on his saddle horn, watching as Porthos and Flea said their goodbyes. “She’ll be a good Queen,” he murmured.

“Do you think so?” Athos asked.

“She cares about the people here.”

“Clearly,” he agreed, discretely looking away as the goodbye reached a particular stage.

“She’s just stolen his purse,” Aramis pointed out.

“She is the Queen of Thieves,” Athos said dryly.

d'Artagnan sat upright suddenly, blinking. “She just walked right through that post.”

“Yes,” Athos agreed mildly.

d'Artagnan shot him a look. “She has an Ability?” he hissed.

“It’s not uncommon here in the Court,” Aramis told him. “Many of the denizens flee here out of fear when they realise what they can do.”

“Did you know about this?”

“Not specifically,” Athos said.

“But you’re not surprised.”

“It only stands to reason that the Queen of the Court would have an Ability. You said she walked through the post? That must be a useful trick for a thief.”

“Best thief in Paris with or without it,” Porthos said as he reached them.

d'Artagnan flushed deeply. “Porthos, I’m sorry…”

“ S’all right.”

“It’s not, I shouldn’t have…”

“It’s all right,” Porthos repeated, and he meant it. d'Artagnan relaxed a little. Talking about Abilities was almost as taboo as having Abilities, but maybe here in the Court people didn’t mind so much.

It must have been nice, living among people who didn’t care if you had an Ability or not. d'Artagnan clicked his horse into movement still imagining it.

Well, maybe some day.

 

Treville leaned over the balcony, scanning the Musketeers practising below. “d'Artagnan!” d'Artagnan backed away from Athos, looking up. “Get cleaned up. We’re going to the palace.”

“The palace?” d'Artagnan repeated.

“I have a meeting with the king. Quickly, now.”

He turned as though to go back into his office, pausing just inside the door where he couldn’t be seen from below. He was fairly sure the Musketeers knew how well sound carried up here, but he kept taking advantage of it anyway.

“You won’t have to do anything,” Porthos said reassuringly. “He just needs someone to go look dangerous.”

“So he picked me?”

“Someone must attend on Captain Treville,” Athos told him. “Think of it as standing on parade. The king may ask your opinion; be honest and clear.”

“Might he?” Aramis said, sounding surprised. “He never asks me.”

“Nor me,” Porthos agreed.

“Ah. Perhaps that’s just me, then. In any case, you likely won’t have to do anything but stand at attention while they talk. Watch Treville, he will signal you what he wants you to do. Now hurry and clean up, the captain won’t like being kept waiting.”

Treville slipped into his office, waited a few minutes, and then headed down to the yard. d'Artagnan was waiting, clean and tidy and holding the reins of two horses. Treville nodded to him, glancing at Athos. “Try not to destroy the garrison while I’m gone.”

“I make no promises,” Athos told him. Treville ignored it, swinging up onto his horse and heading out.

When they reached the palace he turned the horses over to a stable hand and gestured to d'Artagnan to follow him. “The first part of this meeting is between the King, the Cardinal and myself. For this part you will stay just behind me, you will not speak unless spoken to, if spoken to you will be polite and helpful no matter who has spoken. Yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I mean it, d'Artagnan. I know Athos’ opinion of the Cardinal. That is not something you want to pick up from him. The man is the First Minister of France, you will show him the respect due to him.” At least he’d remembered not to say _the respect he deserves_ ; he’d made that mistake with Aramis.

“Yes, sir,” d'Artagnan agreed.

“Good. The King and I also have matters to discuss privately, so when the Cardinal leaves, you will retreat to the door. You will make no effort to listen to us.”

“Yes, sir.”

Treville glanced at him. “Normally, I bring a full Musketeer with me, d'Artagnan. If the King notices you, it may help you gain your commission. The Cardinal will probably make fun of you. Do not rise to it.”

d'Artagnan nodded slowly. “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Treville thought he’d honestly absorbed everything he’d been told.

The Cardinal did attempt to have d'Artagnan dismissed – “If you can’t scrounge up a real Musketeer to attend you, I’m sure I can find a Red Guard” – and Louis, as always, thought it was hilarious. d'Artagnan ignored the whole thing, since he was never directly addressed, standing at attention behind Treville with his gaze locked on the windows behind Louis.

Treville very carefully did not smile when Richelieu was dismissed; he knew how much the Cardinal hated the thought that Treville had the King's ear on any subject. d'Artagnan bowed politely as Richelieu swept past him, following him to the door to make sure it was closed and then sliding back into attention.

Treville dealt with the matters he needed to and then leaned in closer to the king. “My new recruit, your majesty.”

“Yes, I wondered when you’d bring him up,” Louis agreed, watching him steadily.

“We don’t have any proof yet, but Athos and Aramis have both approached me.”

“You haven’t run him past your checker?”

“My checker can’t pick him out of a crowd, and he’s never alone at the garrison. I’ll make it happen when we’re more certain.”

“I’m sure you’ll learn all there is to learn. Who is he?”

Treville started to answer and then turned. “Introduce yourself to his majesty.”

d'Artagnan bowed obediently. “d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony, your majesty.”

“Gascony! Your old stomping grounds, Treville!”

“Yes, sire,” Treville agreed, deciding not to bring up the fact that he’d known Alexandre d'Artagnan, once upon a time.

Louis looked back at Treville. “Well, I’m certain you’ll be able to make a fine Musketeer out of him.”

“I’ll certainly try, your majesty.”

Louis dismissed them and Treville led d'Artagnan back to the stables, waving to one of the boys to find their horses. “That was well done, d'Artagnan.”

d'Artagnan eyed him. “What is it I’ve done well, Captain?”

Treville smiled, stepping away to mount his horse. “Answer me that one, d'Artagnan, you’ll be a step closer to becoming a Musketeer.”

d'Artagnan’s – undoubtedly sarcastic – answer was lost as he turned to mount his own horse, and Treville grinned to himself as they headed out.


	6. The Exiles

d'Artagnan escorted Constance home before going to find Aramis. He knew his friends well by now; Aramis was sitting alone in the darkest corner of a dark little tavern, steadily drinking his way through a fairly mediocre wine.

d'Artagnan sat down opposite him, shaking his head at the wench when she came to see if he wanted anything. “Aramis.”

“d'Artagnan,” Aramis returned. “How are you, my lad?”

“Better than you, I think.” d'Artagnan carefully pulled Aramis’ cup out of his reach; Aramis shrugged, reaching for the bottle, and d'Artagnan pulled that away too. “No, not for a minute. I want to talk to you.”

“And I want to drink.”

“Later,” d'Artagnan insisted. “Aramis, when you reunited Henri and Agnes…”

He trailed off, unsure of how to continue. Aramis squinted at him for a moment and then sighed, leaning across the table to reclaim his cup. “That is truly intrusive, my friend.”

“I know; I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. How does it happen that a babe can make you so sad, Aramis? Such unbearable sorrow?”

Aramis shook his head, eyes on his cup. “That is not something I talk about, d'Artagnan. Not to anyone.”

“Forgive me,” d'Artagnan murmured. “I shouldn’t have…”

“You’re concerned. I understand that. But leave it alone. I don’t need your help.”

“Of course.” 

Aramis emptied his cup, sighing. “Well, I think I’ve had enough swill for one night. Come with me some place better. Unless you have another offer from a fairer face.”

d'Artagnan rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. “No better offers. You’re buying, though.”

“Ah, but I am the aggrieved party.”

“Really? That’s your argument?”

They left the tavern still arguing, and they were still arguing when Aramis simply stopped in the street. “I was to be a father once. The child was miscarried and my love’s father sent her away.”

d'Artagnan breathed through the _griefguiltsorrow_ , touching Aramis’ shoulder lightly. “I’m sorry.”

“I would have been a terrible father.”

“You would have been a wonderful father.”

Aramis shook himself bodily, taking a step away. “We should be careful; Porthos likes to play in the inns around here. We may find ourselves forced to pay his debts.”

“Paying your debts is enough for me,” d'Artagnan said obligingly. If Aramis wanted to pretend he hadn’t spoken, d'Artagnan would play along. “Maybe we should bill everything to Athos. He must have accounts in some of these places.”

“You’re the one who’ll have to face him in training, not me.”

“Yes, why is that? Don’t you established Musketeers ever need to practise?”

Aramis patted him gently on the cheek. “We’re all perfect already.”

They argued in and out of another two inns before Aramis allowed d'Artagnan to steer him towards the garrison. It was barely worth going to bed, they’d have to be on parade in a couple of hours, but d'Artagnan was hoping a wash and change of clothes would help Aramis feel more like himself.

“It’s not something I think about,” Aramis said abruptly as they reached the gates. “Only – I suppose it felt like a second chance, today.”

“You saved Henri,” d'Artagnan reminded him. “And Agnes. You reunited a child and his mother.”

“We, we did that.”

“I think you can count this one as yours.”

Aramis glanced at the stairs leading to his room. “I can manage from here. Go find an empty room, M Bonacieux will hardly be happy if you come home now.”

“There’s not much point,” d'Artagnan agreed. “Are you all right?”

“You tell me.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Aramis smiled. “I’m all right.”

“Good.”

“I would have been a terrible father,” Aramis said softly. “But I would have loved my child.”

“Then you would have been a wonderful father,” d'Artagnan said just as quietly.

“Go and clean up, d'Artagnan. I’ll see you at breakfast.” As d'Artagnan turned away, Aramis added, “Don’t Read me.”

d'Artagnan looked back, but Aramis was already gone. d'Artagnan grimaced, heading for an empty room; sinking down to sit cross legged, he carefully drew a shield against Aramis, blocking out the terrible sorrow and letting him grieve in peace.

 

Aramis glanced around to make sure they were safe before dropping to his knees beside d'Artagnan. He'd been the first victim of the ambush, taking down one man before collapsing, bleeding freely from the thigh. He was half-leaning against a tree, both hands clamped to the injury, watching through lidded eyes.

Aramis stripped off his gloves, leaning in to press two fingers to his neck. He recoiled immediately. Always difficult to Read, d'Artagnan was currently shielding so tightly Aramis could barely sense him at all.

Automatically glancing around to make sure the others weren't too close, he murmured "d'Artagnan, you need to lower your shield."

"No."

Aramis frowned, pulling his sash free and pressing it against the injury, repositioning d'Artagnan's hand to hold it in place. "I can't help you if you don't. You're bleeding out, d'Artagnan. There's no one here, you're safe."

"No!" d'Artagnan threw his head backwards, bouncing it against the tree behind him.

"d'Artagnan!" Aramis got a hand behind his head in time to stop the second blow. He couldn't feel any blood, but the lump was already coming up. "What are you _doing_?"

"I can't," d'Artagnan moaned. "He's not dead yet."

"Who..." Aramis half turned to study the bandit d'Artagnan had brought down. His aim had been good, piercing a lung; the man would die in minutes. "He'll be dead in moments, d'Artagnan. He isn't any danger."

d'Artagnan shook his head, eyes fever bright. "I can't, Aramis, he'll take me with him. Please don't make me go back there, please."

Aramis glanced down; the sash was already soaked in blood. The flow was slowing, but not enough; they didn't have time to wait for the man to die. "Athos!"

Athos came to join them, eyes widening at the sight of them. "Aramis..."

"Put that one out of his misery," Aramis ordered, jerking his chin towards the man.

Athos studied him. "You might save him."

"I'm busy," Aramis snapped. "And he's in pain. Just do it, please."

Athos obeyed, coming back to watch for a moment. "Aramis."

"It's not all his blood," Aramis lied briskly, grateful that the fight had ranged over this whole area. "He's just a little stunned."

"Do you need help?"

"No. Are either of you hurt?"

"Nothing to speak of." That probably meant bruises.

"Good. Go away and let me work before he wakes up enough to notice."

Athos raised an eyebrow, but he went, dragging the body away with him. Aramis turned back to d'Artagnan, cupping his cheek to make him look up. "d'Artagnan, he's dead. Look at me. He's dead. You have to put your shield down now, let me help you." The dissonance between being able to see d'Artagnan, touch him, and not being able to sense him was making him dizzy.

d'Artagnan focused with an effort, pushing weakly against him. "Let go."

"Shields!"

"Let me go. You can't be touching me."

Aramis lifted his hands away without moving. d'Artagnan lowered his head, grimacing.

"d'Artagnan."

"Yes. I'm all right."

Aramis immediately latched back on, one hand on his neck, one plastered to his leg. "You are an _idiot_ ," he muttered as he worked. "I hope it was worth it."

"Worth anything," d'Artagnan said on a sigh.

Armais tightened his grip on the back of his neck to make him look up again. "You almost bled to death," he said distinctly. "Another minute, less, and I would have hurt myself trying to save you. I lied to Athos for you. That's worth it?"

"Worth’t," d'Artagnan agreed. He was exhausted, now, and Aramis hadn't the energy to spare to wake him up any. "S'ry, 'Mis. Can sl'p now?"

"You'd better," Aramis muttered. "We'll talk about this later."

"Ys," d'Artagnan sighed, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. Aramis watched warily until he was sure the boy wasn't leaning against the lump; then he got to work repairing the damage.

Athos had been paying more attention than Aramis thought; a few minutes after he finished working on d'Artagnan, Athos came past with dried meat and a hunk of bread, and a little after that he came back to check on them. “Can we move him? This isn’t a good place to camp.”

Aramis shook his head wearily. “He needs to rest. Not for long, we’ll be able to move on well before dark.”

“You should rest too,” Athos murmured. “I’ll watch over him.”

“I can rest perfectly well right here,” Aramis said firmly.

Athos hesitated, looking between them. “Aramis, he’s not…”

“He needs rest,” Aramis repeated. “He’ll be weak, blood loss. The injury was serious, and I’d like to be here when he wakes in case he was more aware than I think he was.”

“Very well,” Athos agreed. “But you must rest properly. Porthos or I will stay with him, we’ll wake you if you’re needed.”

Aramis gave in, settling near d'Artagnan. He fell asleep almost at once, and it seemed like only moments later when Porthos woke him.

“Boy’s getting restless,” Porthos murmured. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Aramis assured him, glancing at the sky to get an idea of the time. “We’re moving soon?”

“Athos wanted to let you both sleep as much as you could. There’s stew, he caught a couple rabbits.”

“Thank you. For both of us, please.”

Porthos went to take care of it and Aramis moved to sit beside d'Artagnan. He was struggling to wake, fighting his own exhaustion. Aramis helped gently, giving him enough energy to get there, coaxing him out loud.

“There we go,” he murmured when d'Artagnan blinked himself awake. “How do you feel?”

d'Artagnan stared at the branches overhead, swallowing. “Thirsty.”

“That’s the blood loss,” Aramis told him, glancing around. Athos had been watching again; he was waiting with a water skin in his hands, and as soon as Aramis looked at him he came forward to pass it over.

“How are you feeling?” he asked d'Artagnan.

“M’fine,” d'Artagnan assured him.

“Porthos is bringing stew.” d'Artagnan made a face, and Athos smiled. “I know you don’t feel like it, but you need to eat.”

“Sit up,” Aramis murmured. “Slowly.”

He helped, taking the opportunity to Read d'Artagnan. The boy was tired, and weaker than Aramis liked, but that wasn’t unexpected after blood loss.

“Well?” d'Artagnan asked, shifting to lean against the tree. “How am I?”

Aramis forced a smile. “Drink up. Slowly.”

d'Artagnan obeyed, taking careful sips. Porthos came to bring the stew and went away again, helping Athos to put out the fire and clear their belongings.

Aramis waited until d'Artagnan had finished eating to set his own bowl aside. “d'Artagnan.”

“Aramis,” d'Artagnan answered, eyes closed.

“I need to know what happened. I have to know how to help you.”

d'Artagnan nodded without looking at him. “How old were you the first time you killed a man?”

Aramis shrugged. “Fifteen? Sixteen, maybe.”

“I was sixteen,” he said distantly. “Raiders, they’d been attacking the farms around. When they came for us we fought back, my father and I, and I killed one.”

“There’s no shame in that.”

He smiled faintly, eyes still closed. “I was unconscious for nearly two days and ill for another four after that. My father said it was a fever from a wound I took in the fight.”

Aramis leaned forward, laying a hand on d'Artagnan’s to Read him again. “It wasn’t?”

“I wasn’t shielding, when we fought. I so rarely did at home. When he died…”

d'Artagnan trailed off, and Aramis thought quickly. “You said _don’t make me go back there_.” d'Artagnan nodded slowly. “Do you…d'Artagnan, look at me.” He waited patiently until d'Artagnan obeyed before continuing, “Do you believe that’s what happened?” d'Artagnan was as irreverent as any soldier, but he was Catholic and he believed in the afterlife.

“I don’t…” d'Artagnan’s gaze skipped away again. “It was dark, and empty, and I couldn’t find my way back. It felt like forever, all alone there.”

Aramis squeezed his hand, trying to draw his attention back. “If your father said fever…”

“He was afraid of my Ability,” d'Artagnan said flatly. “Not – not of _it_ , but of me being found. It was always _hidden_ and _quiet_ and _safe_. He would have said anything – and it happened again, two years after that, another death. Another…” He shuddered bodily, looking back at Aramis. “I can’t, Aramis,” he said pleadingly. “Someone dies by my hand, I _cannot_ stop shielding until they’re dead. No matter what.”

“You almost bled to death.”

“It’s better,” d'Artagnan said firmly. “Not – you said it would hurt you. I don’t want that. But anything’s better than that dark place.”

Aramis drew in a breath, sighing. “All right. So far as it’s in my power, you will not return to that place.” It was hardly the first time he’d had to work around Abilities, after all; Marsac had been all but impossible to help, and there had been others over the years he'd served with the Musketeers.

“Thank you,” d'Artagnan murmured, squeezing his hand lightly.

“Is there anything else I need to know about you?” d'Artagnan shifted slightly, and Aramis sighed. “Is there anything else you’re willing to tell me?” he rephrased.

“Nothing I can think of. I think you know what you need.”

It didn’t surprise him, really. And he was almost certain d'Artagnan would tell him, in time, so he was willing not to push. “If I find you’ve hidden something important, I’m going to be very upset. Can you travel?” Aramis asked briskly.

“You’re my physician.” Aramis scowled at him, and d'Artagnan smiled, ducking his head. “I’m tired, but I can travel.”

“Dizzy?”

“A little,” he admitted.

“We’ll take it slowly. Make sure that you tell one of us if you need to rest. You lost a lot of blood, you’ll tire easily for a while.”

d'Artagnan glanced towards Athos and Porthos, both busy with the horses. “What did you tell them?”

“I told them you were too far gone to realise how badly hurt you were.” Aramis rose to his feet, holding out a hand to help him up and taking one last Look as he did. Still tired, still weaker than he could be, but easier in himself, more relaxed.

“Good,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Let’s go.”

 

d'Artagnan was supposed to be on light duties for a couple of days, while he recovered from what they were all calling a head injury. He’d grumbled about it, but he was mostly obeying, so Athos was surprised not to see him in the yard on the third morning.

“Treville sent him to the market with Serge,” Porthos told him when he asked.

“I see,” Athos murmured. “Are we there, then?”

“We’ve been quite loud,” Aramis said with a shrug.

“And he’s lasted longer than a lot of recruits do,” Porthos added. “It’s about time for this.”

“It doesn’t prove anything,” Aramis said, watching him.

“It will tell us whether he’ll ever advance here or not,” Athos said with a sigh. He’d known this would happen, of course; it happened to every prospective Musketeer at a certain point in their training. He was quite sure d'Artagnan would pass, but it still worried him.

“No, it won’t, it’ll just tell us whether he _can_ advance here or not,” Porthos said briskly.

“He’d be wasted in any other regiment,” Aramis added.

“He’ll be wasted _here_ if he can’t gain a commission,” Athos snapped. “He cannot stay a recruit forever, much as some of us may like him to.”

“I think that one’s aimed at you, Aramis,” Porthos told him.

Aramis shrugged. “He’d fit in here, you know he would.”

“Knowing it doesn’t get him past the requirement,” Athos reminded them. “Now shush, they’re coming back.”

Porthos bounded to his feet, going to relieve d'Artagnan of some of the baskets he was carrying. d'Artagnan gave them up gratefully. His injury was healed, but he still tired more quickly than normal; it was the only reason he wasn’t fighting harder against his lightened duty load.

“Serge,” Treville called down from the balcony. “How was the market?”

“Went well, Captain,” Serge told him. “Got everything you wanted.”

“Good.” Treville nodded sharply. “Get those supplies in and come up here, I want to talk to you. Athos, you too.”

Serge nodded, heading for the kitchen with Porthos and d'Artagnan trailing behind him. Aramis sighed, glancing at Athos. “That answers that, then.”

“Yes,” Athos agreed. Glancing at Aramis, he added, “Do you think he can do it?”

Aramis shrugged. “Hard to say. It will depend on how well we teach him. Considering how long it took you…”

Athos nodded absently, looking back at the kitchen as Serge emerged. “Get him practising his stances. He can do that without wearing himself out. I won’t be long.”

He wasn’t; Serge didn’t have much to say except that they’d been right to suspect d'Artagnan, he did have an Ability, something in the Active Mental family. That gave them a lot of possibilities, and it fit with what Athos had noticed as they worked together.

Athos stepped out of the office and hesitated on the balcony, watching as Aramis directed d'Artagnan’s stance and Porthos offered less than helpful comments from the sidelines. d'Artagnan grinned at something Aramis said, glancing up to meet Athos’ eyes. Athos nodded slowly, moving to join them. Whether d'Artagnan passed the requirement or not, he still needed training, and Athos intended him to be the best.


	7. A Rebellious Woman

Porthos was already moving towards the disturbance when he realised d'Artagnan was sliding from his horse in a barely-controlled fall. Cursing, he reined in. “d'Artagnan?”

“I’m fine.” d'Artagnan was leaning heavily against his horse. “Go. I’m behind you.”

Porthos glanced around for the nearest Musketeer, gestured him to stay with d'Artagnan, and started pushing his way through the crowd. Treville was sending the royal carriage on, directing Musketeers with shouts and hand gestures; they met just as Porthos was rolling the young woman’s body over.

“Is she armed?” Treville asked.

Porthos shook his head, plucking a roll of parchment from her hand. “Only with this.”

Treville glanced away and a moment later Constance fell to her knees before them. “Thérèse DuBois,” she said, reaching out to touch her.

d'Artagnan appeared beside Porthos, leaning forward to get Constance’s attention. “What was she doing?”

“I don’t know.” Constance took the paper from him, studying it. “Fleur, what does this mean? Fleur?”

Whoever she was looking for was gone. Porthos glanced sideways at d'Artagnan. The boy was still too pale, supporting himself with one hand on the ground.

“You right?” he murmured, keeping one eye on Treville.

“What? Yes.” d'Artagnan pushed to his feet, more violently than he really needed to, and turned to start ushering people back.

Porthos frowned, watching him for a moment before looking back at Constance. “Can we escort you home, Madame?”

She looked up sharply, following his gaze to d'Artagnan. “Thank you. I do feel a little shaky.”

d'Artagnan glanced back at them, but he didn’t comment, only waited while Porthos got Treville’s permission and then followed them away from the scene.

Constance walked in silence for a while, more or less ignoring Porthos. d'Artagnan was still trailing behind them; Porthos glanced back every so often, noting with some satisfaction that the boy was regaining his colour the more they went.

Half a street from the Bonacieux house d'Artagnan suddenly stepped past Porthos, touching Constance’s arm. “Constance.”

“What?”

“Are you all right?”

“Now you notice?” She pulled her arm free, stalking towards the house.

“No, of course not. I didn’t want to ask you in public.”

“We’re still in public!” she hissed.

“No one’s paying attention. Constance.” He touched her arm again, not holding it, just touching it; Porthos looked away, keeping them in the corner of his eye.

After a moment Constance turned away, heading for the house. “I can’t bear the thought of Fleur alone, lost in Paris.”

“We’ll find her,” d'Artagnan promised, following her into the room Bonacieux used to store his cloth. “I promise.”

“What am I going to tell her father? He’s my husband’s cousin.”

Porthos gestured her to sit, taking a seat near her; d'Artagnan sat, bracing his elbows on his knees and letting his head hang. Porthos ignored it. He’d deal with that later. “How long have you known our friend Thérèse?” he asked Constance.

Constance shook her head. “A month or so. There is one thing that might help. Comtesse de Larroque had taken an interest in her. She was teaching her to read and write.”

“Many nobles are kind to their servants,” d'Artagnan said gently.

“This was more than that. Thérèse knew Greek and Latin, she’d studied the stars…Fleur attended some of the lessons too. They…went in secret.”

Porthos glanced at d'Artagnan, one eyebrow up. d'Artagnan shrugged. It was more education than most men ever got, but it was the secrecy that caught his attention.

“Thank you,” Porthos told Constance. “I promise we’ll do everything we can.”

“Do you want me to stay until your husband gets back?” d'Artagnan asked quietly.

“No, no. I’m fine. Please, go and find Fleur.”

d'Artagnan nodded, following Porthos back out. Porthos let them get a street away, well out of view of the house, before pausing. “d'Artagnan.”

“Mmm?”

“You with me?”

d'Artagnan glanced at him, frowning. “Porthos…”

“Don’t know where your mind’s at, but it’s not here.” Porthos softened his voice. “Look, seeing a girl like that…if you need to take a bit…”

“I’m fine,” d'Artagnan said firmly.

“d'Artagnan…”

“I’m fine,” he repeated.

“I can go talk to Treville on my own.”

“Porthos!”

Porthos eyed him. “Back with me, then? Good. Keep doing that.”

d'Artagnan rolled his eyes. “Really?”

“Don’t think I’m not setting Aramis on you, either.”

“He won’t find anything.”

“Then it won’t hurt, will it? Come on; we need to catch Treville.”

They had just enough time to explain to Treville before he left with Athos and Aramis to escort the priest Sestini to the palace. Porthos didn’t have time to make good on his threat, either, but he was planning to and he knew d’Artagnan knew it.

Treville had told them to wait at the garrison. d'Artagnan settled at their usual table, freeing his rosary from around his wrist. For all the time he spent praying on that thing, Porthos hadn’t yet seen him go to a church, but he wasn’t going to question another man’s beliefs.

They sat in silence until the others arrived back. d'Artagnan looked much better, almost perfectly like himself; he wound the rosary back on, standing to greet the others.

“We’re to visit the salon of the Comtesse,” Athos told them. “To see if she knows anything about Fleur’s disappearance.”

“An excellent idea,” d'Artagnan agreed, starting to move away.

Porthos caught his arm, holding him in place without effort. “Before that, Aramis, you might want to take a look at d'Artagnan. Near came off his horse earlier, and he’s been distracted since.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” d'Artagnan insisted, eyes on Aramis. “The heat, that’s all. I’d have told Porthos that, but he was busy with the girl who was killed. Thérèse.”

Porthos frowned. d'Artagnan and Aramis were talking to each other, absolutely silently. When had they got that close?

Aramis nodded briskly. “Have you taken anything to drink since? That’s best when one is too hot. Come with me.”

d'Artagnan went meekly. Porthos frowned, watching them go before looking at Athos. “What was that?”

“I’m sure I have no idea.”

“Aramis knows something he’s not telling us.”

“I’m sure he knows many things he isn’t telling us. Would you really want to know everything he does? There is a limit to what I wish to know about the ladies of Paris.”

“And you know what it is, too.”

Athos held his gaze without answering. Porthos laughed softly, looking away. “It’s the bloody requirement, isn’t it.”

“I’m sure I have no idea,” Athos repeated.

“Yeah, yeah. I know the drill.”

“Porthos,” Athos said quietly. “I really don’t know. Suspicions. Nothing solid. If I’d had anything I could give you…”

“I know. And Aramis?”

“He won’t say. I’m quite sure he has suspicions, too. But he refuses to discuss them with me. Perhaps he will with you.”

“Maybe. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Don’t approach d'Artagnan. You know what the requirement is.”

“Yeah, I remember. Thought you were never going to pass it.”

“Hmm.”

Aramis reappeared, dropping to sit opposite Porthos. “He’s fine. He’ll be back in a moment, I told him to drink some more.”

“So it was the heat?” Porthos asked.

“Summer in Paris,” Aramis said with a shrug.

“He grew up in Gascony.”

“Quite a different kind of heat.”

Porthos leaned forward to hold his gaze. “If it was something would affect him, you’d let us know.”

Aramis clasped both hands to his heart. “What do you take me for, Porthos? If I thought for even a moment his skills would be affected, I would certainly not keep it to myself.”

Porthos sat back, grimacing at Athos’ pointed look. Sometimes he forgot just how skilled Aramis was with words. “Good. Don’t like to think he might be in trouble and hiding it from us.”

Aramis smiled. “Don’t worry. He’s not in trouble.”

d'Artagnan joined them, looping a waterskin over his shoulder. “Ready?”

“Yes,” Athos said before either of the others could answer. “Let’s go.”

 

d'Artagnan lagged behind Athos and Porthos as they rode. Aramis stayed beside him, talking quietly about complete inconsequentials; he didn’t answer much, but it made it look to the others as though they were talking.

“Are you sure you’re well?” Aramis asked as they neared the Comtesse’s townhouse.

“Yes,” d'Artagnan said with a sigh. “I wasn’t expecting the death, that’s all.”

“You weren’t shielding?”

“Watching for threats to the King. Thérèse had no intention of hurting anyone; I didn’t register her until it was too late.”

Aramis eyed him. “You’ve felt death before. You must have.”

“When I was prepared for it, yes. The last death I wasn’t expecting was my father, and I was ill for near a day before I started for Paris. Deaths I’ve caused myself are even worse. You’re a healer, you must know this. The end of everything a person is – it’s big, Aramis. If I’m ready for it, there’s no problem. If I’m not…” He shrugged. “I’m fine now. I used the beads while we were waiting for you.”

“It’s not good to lean so heavily on those,” Aramis warned him. “Not on anything that can be taken away from you.”

“I know. Paris – it’s too big; too loud. It’s getting easier, a little better every day, but – it’s this or leave, Aramis. Or go mad and jump in the river.”

“You could use us,” he suggested.

d'Artagnan swallowed. “You’re not steady enough.” Not true, he'd been shielding on them for a while now, but mostly involuntarily. Until he got it under better control, he didn't want to say anything about it.

“I think I’ve just been insulted,” Aramis announced to no one in particular. 

“And you pick up too many traces from other people. There’s no way to avoid that.”

“I suppose not.”

“If you two are quite ready?” Athos called from ahead.

“Merely sharing some medical advice,” Aramis said easily, spurring his horse forward to join Athos. d'Artagnan dismounted where he was, handing the reins over to the waiting stable boy.

Ninon’s home was amazing, two levels filled with more books than d'Artagnan had ever seen, full of light. The women were mostly curious, some mildly concerned. He mentally went through them, trying to find something he could recognise as Fleur. He’d had only a brief sense of her earlier.

Oh. _That_ was unexpected. He traced that familiar sense, catching sight of a skirt disappearing around a pillar. Not Fleur, but maybe just as important.

When he refocused Athos was oddly flustered; it surprised him. Porthos and Aramis both stepped in, diverting the Comtesse just long enough for Athos to recover himself; he was quick to leave them behind when she offered to let him look for Fleur, though.

“Well,” d'Artagnan murmured. “If that wasn’t flirting, I don’t know what is.” 

“Rubbish, she can’t stand him,” Porthos protested.

Aramis smiled. “Some day, we’ll sit down and I’ll explain women to you.”

“Good luck,” d'Artagnan said absently. That trace was turning jealous, anger seeping through.

Aramis glanced at him, frowned, and manoeuvred him away from Porthos. “What is it?”

d'Artagnan shook his head. “Something to tell Athos; I don’t think it’s related.”

“Is Fleur here?”

“I can’t tell. I don’t know her well enough.”

“Then stop looking. Porthos is already suspicious.”

d'Artagnan concentrated, keeping hold of that one trace to tell Athos about and letting everything else fade out. Aramis watched, narrow-eyed, until he nodded. “Yes. I’m fine.”

“Good.” Aramis clapped him on the shoulder, going back to join Porthos.

d'Artagnan lingered near the doorway until Athos returned. He spoke briefly to the others before Aramis gestured to d'Artagnan; Athos glanced over, coming to join him. “Something wrong?”

d'Artagnan took a step back, into the corridor; Athos followed, one eyebrow raised. “Is this necessary?”

“I hope not, but considering what I’m about to tell you…your word that you will be _calm_ , Athos.”

“Is Fleur here?”

“This isn’t about Fleur; I don’t think it is, anyway.” d'Artagnan hesitated before blurting out “Your wife is here.”

Athos went very, very still.

“I saw her as we came in,” d'Artagnan continued quickly. “She hid until you left with the Comtesse; then she slipped out a side door. I don’t think she was happy with your conversation.”

“Have you told the others?” Athos asked eventually.

“I swore I wouldn’t, and I haven’t. Athos, does the Comtesse know who she is?”

“I’d imagine not,” he said distantly. “I am to return tonight; I will try to find out.”

d'Artagnan swallowed. “I’m sorry…”

“No. It’s better to know. Say nothing to the others, for now.”

“Of course,” d'Artagnan murmured.

Athos turned to gesture the other two to join them. “I’m satisfied Fleur Baudin is not here,” he told them. “We should return to Treville and make our report.”

“What happens then?” d'Artagnan asked.

“That depends on the King. Let’s go.”

 

d'Artagnan felt bad leaving Constance at home, but Fleur was gone, collected by her father, and there was no more use he could be. Constance had agreed, waving him off.

Now he was standing at the back of the room. The trial had already started and he was unwilling to draw attention to himself by joining the others.

At least, he was unwilling until he realised what was happening. Then he slipped carefully through the crowd until he reached Aramis’ side. Aramis was watching Ninon, like everyone else, listening as she argued her case.

d'Artagnan stamped on his foot.

Aramis strangled a curse, turning to glare at him. d'Artagnan stepped even closer, lowering his voice as far as he dared. “She has an Ability.”

Aramis glanced at Ninon and back at d'Artagnan. “How do you know?”

“Trust me,” he muttered. “Try not to listen to her.”

Aramis looked at him for a moment longer before stumbling to one side, directly into Athos and Porthos. Neither of them made any noise, but they both looked at d'Artagnan first. He mimed blocking his ears and Athos nodded, eyes narrowed.

“Madame de la Chapelle, come forward,” the Cardinal ordered.

d'Artagnan flinched, reaching for Athos’ arm. “Athos…”

Madame de la Chapelle began speaking, and Athos went rigid.

“ _Porthos_ ,” d'Artagnan hissed, and Porthos stepped into Athos’ other side, pinning him between them. “Athos, don’t, it won’t do any good!”

Athos gripped Porthos’ arm, tightly enough that Porthos grimaced, but he didn’t speak. Aramis shifted so that he could watch Madame de la Chapelle give her testimony, frowning as he listened.

Athos tensed when she was dismissed, passing by them with a sideways glance, but he made no attempt to go after her. Porthos let him go, warily; d'Artagnan took a couple of steps backwards, leaning heavily against the wall. Athos’ rage _hurt_ , and it was difficult to block.

It was odd, being near Athos and Anne at the same time. d'Artagnan knew Anne, at least a little; but Athos' perceptions of her were so certain, so sharply formed, it was odd to stand near her and realise that her sole purpose in life was not his destruction. She wouldn't be upset about it, d'Artagnan thought, but she was concentrating on other things. Lots of other things; her mind was working very quickly, planning all the time.

She was hurting Athos, badly, simply by being there. That alone would have meant that d'Artagnan would never be inclined to go to her again; but something about her cold pragmatism made him sick. Killing someone because you had to was one thing. Killing someone because it was expedient was completely different. If it came to it, he knew, if it suited her plans, Anne would kill him without a second thought.

“Who was that?” Porthos demanded. Athos only shook his head, looking back towards the front of the room as the Cardinal pronounced Ninon’s death sentence.

The Queen appeared, smiling coldly at the Cardinal. “It is his Majesty’s wish that unless the Comtesse declares her guilt, freely and without torture, that she be spared the death penalty.”

d'Artagnan smiled faintly at the wave of relief passing through the room. Only two people seemed angry about it; the Cardinal, and Father Sestini. The Cardinal rose to his feet, already protesting.

And then his eyes rolled back and he clawed at his throat as his breath caught. Unprepared, d'Artagnan stumbled, trying to throw up a shield as his own throat seemed to close; Athos turned to catch him as he staggered into the wall. Aramis looked towards him but d'Artagnan waved him off, forcing the shield up through sheer force of will and bending over to cough harshly.

“Go,” Athos said over his head, and Aramis went. Athos tugged lightly at d'Artagnan’s arm, steering him out of the room and into the courtyard.

“Deep breaths,” he said, and d'Artagnan obliged, feeling the last of the constriction fall away. Inside the Cardinal was still suffering, and Louis was all but hysterical, and Aramis was sadly determined, but out here it was quiet and still and Athos was patiently waiting.

“I’m fine,” he said eventually.

“Yes, you’ve been quite fine these last few days,” Athos agreed dryly.

“Athos…”

“You don’t have to tell us, but don’t assume that we’re idiots, d'Artagnan.”

“I’ve never thought that.”

Athos nodded sharply. “Good. What was wrong with Ninon?”

d'Artagnan winced. “Some kind of – something in her voice, made us more willing to listen. I don’t think she had any actual control,” he added at Athos’ look. “Just – easier to hear.”

“I see,” Athos murmured. “You didn’t hear this before.”

“I was slightly occupied with your wife the first time.” Glancing at Athos, he added, “And I didn’t spend any time alone with her after that.”

Athos smirked, glancing towards the building as Porthos appeared. “What’s happening?”

“Cardinal’s throwing up all over the place,” Porthos said cheerfully. “Aramis says it’s a good sign, I dunno. We all right out here?” Without waiting for an answer, he added “Who was that woman?”

“Not who she claimed to be. Aramis thinks the Cardinal was poisoned?”

“He’s fairly sure.”

“Then we need to find who’d want to kill the Cardinal.”

“Who wouldn’t?” d'Artagnan muttered, and flinched at his look. “Why don’t I go and see if Aramis needs help?”

“Why don’t you,” Athos agreed flatly. d'Artagnan grinned, slipping inside and leaving them to decide what to do next.

 

Richelieu drifted towards consciousness, aware of voices nearby. He felt far better than he’d expected to; he was sore and tired and his head hurt, but he was alive.

After a while he identified one of the voices as Aramis, the Musketeer medic. The other name was slower to come to him, until he finally remembered; d'Artagnan, the Gascon boy, Milady’s little pet project.

They clearly hadn’t realised he was awake, and he didn’t move. Extra intelligence on the Musketeers was always useful, however he came by it.

“Why did you learn?” d'Artagnan asked quietly. “Herblore and stitching, why do you need them?”

“I can’t always do things the other way,” Aramis told him. “Sometimes the company is wrong, or the surroundings.”

“You just Healed _Richelieu_.”

Richelieu lay very, very still.

“He won’t remember. He’ll think it was the emetic. He may have suspicions, but he won’t act on them, not without proof.”

“Would the emetic have worked?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I couldn’t risk it.”

“Risk it,” d'Artagnan repeated.

Aramis fussed with the blanket for a moment. “Where I perceive pain I must try and ease it. Where something is broken I must try to fix it. That is the price I pay.”

“You’re a soldier,” d'Artagnan pointed out.

“And so I do not touch those who must die. Once I touch them, it’s very difficult for me to ignore their needs.”

“Including your mistresses?”

Aramis laughed softly. “I can shield, if I have to. But – well, you know what happens when one shields for too long.”

“I have a vague idea,” d'Artagnan agreed.

“An encounter, a few hours. This is easy. A battle, a siege, time among enemies…” Aramis was moving, getting further away. “It’s not so heavy a price.”

“I hadn’t realised.”

“No reason you should. I don’t begrudge it. I do, however, need to eat. He shouldn’t wake up for some while yet. If he does, call me.”

“I will,” d'Artagnan promised, and the door closed firmly.

Richelieu kept his breathing even with an effort. A confession, straight from the mouth of a Musketeer. It was everything he’d wanted for years, since Treville had convinced the King to found that stupid regiment. Abilities were strictly forbidden, those with them imprisoned or killed depending on what the Ability was. But he’d suspected the Musketeers for years, and now he had proof.

Richelieu let some time pass – maybe twenty minutes – before shifting as though waking up. d'Artagnan had been utterly silent the whole time, silent enough that Richelieu had wondered if he’d been left completely alone. But now he moved, coming closer to the bed. “Cardinal?”

“What happened?” Richelieu asked, pressing a hand to his head.

“You’ve been sick. Poisoned, we think. Aramis has treated you, he believes you’ll recover.”

“Oh, well, if _Aramis_ thinks so,” Richelieu muttered. “Water.”

d'Artagnan wouldn’t have liked that, but he obediently found a cup and helped Richelieu to drink it. Richelieu automatically blessed it before drinking to make it safe; he had no wish to be poisoned again, and it seemed likely if the first attempt hadn’t worked.

He’d always enjoyed the irony of the First Minister of France having the Ability to neutralise poison in food or drink; he’d protected the King a dozen times without his ever knowing it. Who would question a Churchman blessing a meal?

d'Artagnan set the cup aside, standing uncertainly for a moment. “I should send for Aramis, he wanted to know when you woke.”

“By all means. Let’s let him ply his talent.”

d'Artagnan hesitated, looking at him oddly, but then left. Richelieu waited patiently, trying to decide how he would play this.

Aramis arrived a few minutes later, doffing his cap and bowing at the door. “Your Eminence.”

“Aramis,” Richelieu answered, watching as d'Artagnan skulked in and waited just inside the door.

“How are you feeling?” Aramis touched his neck gently – gloved, Richelieu noted.

“Like I’ve been poisoned.”

“A little more specific, if you please.”

Richelieu glared at d'Artagnan, who shifted slightly but didn’t seem to get the hint. “My throat’s sore,” he said finally. “And my head. I feel sick.”

“That’s the emetic,” Aramis said apologetically, pulling off his glove to check the pulse at Richelieu’s wrist. “We had to get the poison out of your system. How’s your breathing?”

“Fine.” He caught Aramis’ wrist, holding it just tightly enough to hurt; Aramis watched him steadily. “Will I live?”

“Without question.”

“How fortunate I am that you were here.”

“Aramis,” d'Artagnan said from the doorway.

“In a moment,” Aramis said without moving. “I’m sure that the monks here could have tended you just as well as I, Eminence.”

“Oh, I think not. If I had to be poisoned, I’m lucky you were here. Your skills are near miraculous.”

“ _Aramis_ ,” d'Artagnan said again.

“Much study and sad experience,” Aramis said evenly, still ignoring him. He hadn’t tried to pull free, he wasn’t even tense. “Is there anything you need, Cardinal? Sadly, our duties call us away, but the monks are most anxious to take care of you.”

“I’m sure they are,” Richelieu agreed, letting him go. Aramis didn’t recoil or reach to touch his freed wrist; he didn’t seem to have noticed, which irritated Richelieu immensely. “I need nothing. Go attend to your duties. I’m sure they are most important.”

Aramis stood, bowing as he retreated. “Try and rest, your Eminence, and you’ll soon recover.” He caught d'Artagnan’s arm, bundling him out the door without letting him speak.

Richelieu smiled, letting himself relax. He could string Aramis along this way for months, never quite letting him relax. It could be a lot of fun. And it could be useful, having access to a healer whose freedom depended on his silence. As long as he didn't abuse the privilege too much; he knew enough about Aramis to know that he would bend to a certain point and then kick, hard. It would take finesse to manage him.

Of course, he probably wouldn’t ever turn him in. It would be the height of ingratitude. But still – he had proof, now. Somewhere to start.

He drifted back to sleep imagining the day he’d expose the Musketeers.

 

“He knows,” d'Artagnan hissed as they walked.

Aramis faltered briefly before shaking his head. “I thought I told you to stop Reading people.”

“Under the circumstances, it seemed wise. Aramis…”

“He has no proof.”

“He’s First Minister of France! He doesn’t need proof!”

Aramis caught his arm, driving him against the nearest wall and holding him there with an arm across his chest. “Calm. Down,” he said deliberately. d'Artagnan gripped his arm, but he wasn’t trying to free himself, only to ground himself. Aramis ignored it. “Calm,” he said again, watching as d'Artagnan forced himself to calm down.

“Richelieu is a politician,” he said finally. “He will do nothing about me unless he has proof, and I have no intention of providing him that proof. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan said after a moment.

“Did he mean me any harm?”

d'Artagnan tried to look away; Aramis was too close. “He likes thinking you’ll know that he knows,” he said finally. “He enjoys holding it over you. But no. I don’t think he means to hand you over.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about.” Aramis relaxed the pressure in his arm without removing it. “All right? Nothing.”

“You should tell…” d'Artagnan cut himself off.

“I will deal with this,” Aramis promised softly. “And if I need your help, I will come to you. I promise. If you will promise not to worry about this in between. Am I worried?”

“A little,” d'Artagnan murmured.

Aramis smiled in spite of himself. “Well, then, I suppose you can worry a little.”

d'Artagnan tightened his grip on Aramis’ arm and Aramis took a step back, letting him free. “This will be fine,” he said again.

“How is the Cardinal?” the Queen called from further down the colonnade.

d'Artagnan bowed before backing away, waiting patiently some way away.

“I was surprised to see my gift to you around Ninon’s neck,” the Queen said stiffly. “Is she your lover, too?”

Aramis hoped d'Artagnan wasn’t Reading him right now. “She is a good woman facing an appalling death. I sought only to comfort her.”

The Queen flushed. “Forgive me. Your compassion does you credit.” Aramis smiled, bowing very faintly, and she hurried past him and away.

If d'Artagnan had been Reading him, he gave no sign of it when Aramis rejoined him. “Come on, the others are waiting.”

 

 

Athos dug through Sestini’s bag, ignoring the odd dampness under his fingers. d'Artagnan picked up a few of the effects, flipping absently through a book.

“The pages are damp,” he said, cutting across Porthos and Aramis’ argument.

“It’s poison,” Athos agreed calmly. “Everything’s soaked in it. Wash your hands.”

d'Artagnan obeyed, and when he stepped away from the bowl Aramis was there to take his hands and examine them. Athos carefully ignored it, washing his own hands and letting Aramis study them when he was done with d'Artagnan. There was a brief rush of warmth and he hoped absently that d'Artagnan hadn’t noticed it.

“Will I live?” he asked.

“Undoubtedly,” Aramis agreed with a smile.

“Sestini’s still at the abbey,” d'Artagnan reminded them.

“And the Cardinal’s still alive,” Porthos agreed.

“For now,” Athos muttered, hurrying out.

The sun was rising as they reached the abbey. Athos swung off his horse, glaring at the pyre. “What’s this? The sentence was commuted!”

“She confessed,” the guard said carelessly, shaking his hand off.

Athos snarled, following the others up towards the balcony. Aramis shouted as he caught sight of Sestini, but they lost him among a group of priests and Athos changed direction, heading directly for the Cardinal’s room. If Sestini knew he’d been discovered, he’d try and complete his mission.

The pair were grappling when Athos burst into the room; behind him, Aramis shouted to make Sestini look up and shot him neatly in the shoulder. The Cardinal flinched violently away, almost falling off the bed. “You’re late!”

"We're pleased to see you unharmed, your Eminence," Athos said blandly, pulling Sestini's body off the bed.

"I doubt that, but thank you for the sentiment," Richelieu said, struggling to his feet. Aramis moved as though to support him and then drew back.

"The pyre," d'Artagnan said urgently.

Athos dropped to his knees in front of Richelieu. "You can have everything you want without killing her. _Please_."

"It's rather medieval, isn't it?" Richelieu mused. "Confronting one's own death does make one wary about inflicting it on others. I'm not a cruel man, just a practical one. What do you suggest?"

"Banish her," he said quickly. d'Artagnan was getting entirely too twitchy; they were cutting things too close. "Keep her properties and her land if you must. Send her somewhere she can't inflict these ideas on the women of Paris."

“And you think she will agree to these conditions?” Richelieu was doing this on purpose, he was sure, dragging this out.

“If this is the alternative?” He waved towards the courtyard below.

Richelieu smiled thinly. “Yes, I suppose so. Very well, I will commute the sentence.”

Athos was gone on his word, almost throwing himself down the stairs to the courtyard. “Commuted! Her sentence is commuted! By order of the Cardinal!”

They were lucky, really, that none of the Red Guards tried to stop them. Their opposition to the sentence was well known, after all. But d'Artagnan and Aramis kept the guards off while Athos and Porthos beat out the fire and freed Ninon from the pyre. 

One of the nuns brought a dish of water and a cloak; Athos waited patiently while Ninon cleaned her face and hands and pulled on the cloak. She was trembling a little, but when he offered to let her rest before facing the Cardinal she shook her head. “Let’s be done with this.” She smiled at him. “Thank you, for fighting for me.”

Porthos had waited in the courtyard, and they found d'Artagnan outside the door of the Cardinal’s room. “He’s talking with Aramis,” he told them.

“On what subject?” Athos asked.

d'Artagnan looked away. “I think Aramis is making sure he won’t relapse.”

Athos went to knock on the door, and d'Artagnan said quickly, “Comtesse, a moment of your time before you see the Cardinal?”

Ninon looked at Athos, who murmured, “d'Artagnan apprentices under me, and I’ve generally found his insights to be useful.”

“I see. In that case, d'Artagnan, I am all ears.”

d'Artagnan escorted her a few steps down the corridor; either he was doing it for show, or he didn’t realise how well Athos could hear, because he was still well within hearing range when he stopped. “Comtesse, I don’t want to overstep.”

“You and your friends saved my life,” Ninon reminded him. “You may say what you like.”

d'Artagnan nodded slowly. “You should be careful when you speak with the Cardinal.”

“Pardon me?”

“You should be careful with what you say. And _how_ you say it.”

Athos, watching from the corner of his eye, could see Ninon’s eyes widen for a moment before she gathered herself. “I’m sure I…”

“…have no idea what I mean,” d'Artagnan agreed. “I’m sure you don’t. But the Cardinal needs no more reasons to hate you, Comtesse. And Athos…”

He glanced back at them; Athos didn’t react, still keeping them in the corner of his eye. From d'Artagnan’s point of view it would have looked like Athos wasn’t looking at them at all.

“Athos needs no one else to grieve for,” he said finally, looking back at Ninon. “Please be careful, my lady.”

Ninon studied him for a moment. “Thank you for your concern,” she said thoughtfully. “I will remember what you’ve said.”

d'Artagnan escorted her back to the others. Athos nodded briskly, turning to knock on the door of the Cardinal’s room.

The conversation with Richelieu was more or less what Athos had been expecting; veiled threats, not-so veiled threats, outright threats. He quietly ushered Ninon out when Richelieu started talking to himself; the others trailed out after him, and he left her in Porthos’ care, drawing Aramis aside.

“What did Richelieu want with you?” Aramis started to shake his head, and Athos said “Aramis. What did he want?”

Aramis grimaced. “He wanted to talk endlessly around the topic of Abilities. Without mentioning my Ability. And without mentioning his knowledge of my Ability.”

“Aramis…” Athos groaned.

“Athos, I already spent five minutes talking d'Artagnan out of panicking over this, and he doesn’t even know anything. Don’t make me do it again. Richelieu has no intention of doing anything with the knowledge. He just wants me to squirm.”

“You’re sure?”

“Quite sure. He was very clear, considering he was very explicitly not mentioning anything.”

“He’s good at that,” Athos muttered. “Aramis, if you feel there’s danger…”

“Tell you immediately, or run away. Yes, Athos, I’m familiar with your rules.”

“Good,” Athos said mildly. “Try to follow them this time. Do you think he knows about us?”

Aramis shook his head. “He suspects, but he has no proof. And we both know he’s been looking for years. He just got lucky yesterday.”

“Yes, I’ve always considered being poisoned to be the height of luck.”

“Athos?”

“Yes, Aramis.”

“Go and escort the lady and leave me alone.”

Athos smiled, pulling his hat on and bowing. “Return to the garrison.”

Aramis saluted, waving him off, and he went to escort Ninon to her new life.

 

Fleur was so genuinely happy it made d'Artagnan smile. The stab of disappointment from Constance surprised him, but there was really only one reason.

“It was you who went to Baudin, wasn’t it.” Constance hesitated, and d'Artagnan added quietly, “You pleaded for Fleur.”

“Don’t be silly.”

She wasn’t really trying to be convincing, and d'Artagnan smiled. “You are the finest woman I have ever met. I don’t believe there’s a more generous soul in all of France.”

Constance turned, pressing her fingers against his lips. “Stop that! You’re embarrassing me.”

d'Artagnan grinned around her fingers. “What if I want to embarrass you? Why shouldn’t I list all the reasons I love you?”

That was too far, and he knew it immediately. Constance was fond of him, she enjoyed his company, but there had never been even the slightest hint of anything else. “Of course, when I say that, I mean…admire, and…respect…”

“Say that again.”

He blinked. “I…admire and respect you.”

“Not that part, you idiot!”

Oh. _Oh._

“I love you.”

It washed over her, dragging him along with it; she’d been blocking it, all this time, refusing to think it, refusing to even entertain the thought, but she loved him, she loved _him_!

d'Artagnan wasn’t sure which of them moved first, who kissed who first, he wasn’t even sure who was feeling what anymore, and he didn’t care.

_She loved him!_


	8. The Challenge, part 1

Athos sighed, watching d'Artagnan slip out of the garrison. “Aramis?” he asked quietly. Aramis consistently seemed to have the best insight into d'Artagnan’s moods.

Aramis glanced up, following his gaze. “Ah, he’s fine.”

“Are you certain?”

“LaBarge’s crimes have upset him. He knows some of the victims, after all.”

“Yes, I suppose he does,” Athos murmured.

“He’s fine,” Aramis assured him, turning away.

The wait for Treville to return was long, and boring, and Athos was considering finding some alcohol to speed it along when he finally returned. d'Artagnan turned up a few minutes later, slipping through the crowd to join them. “What’s going on?”

“There is to be a competition,” Athos told him. “Between the Musketeers and the Red Guards.”

He hadn’t thought it through. d'Artagnan wasn’t a Musketeer yet, he wouldn’t be eligible to compete. He caught the boy’s wince at the mention of the entry fee, too, but he wasn’t sure why; the stipend d'Artagnan received from his farm was enough to cover the fee if he’d been able to enter.

“You’re a Musketeer in all but name,” he said when he thought d'Artagnan had wallowed enough. “You lack the King’s commission.”

“Among other things,” d'Artagnan muttered, but he knew enough not to refer to the requirement in company, even the company of other Musketeers.

“Go to Treville,” Aramis suggested. “Ask him for a chance.”

Athos raised an eyebrow at him. Treville agreed with them about d'Artagnan, but he wouldn’t commission him yet, and without the commission d'Artagnan couldn’t take part. The Cardinal would never allow it.

Aramis looked back at him calmly, and Athos looked away.

d'Artagnan took him at his word, heading up to see Treville. Aramis and Porthos left, looking for someone to finance their entry, and Athos went to practise with some of the other Musketeers. He didn’t plan to take part in the challenge, but it never hurt to practise.

He was still practising a little later when d'Artagnan came back and immediately challenged him. Athos took the challenge, but it only took moments for him to realise that something was badly wrong. d'Artagnan tended to fight with his heart rather than his head anyway, but something had clearly upset him; he was sloppier than usual, making rash moves.

Athos prodded, slipping from topic to topic until he found LaBarge. d'Artagnan’s control slipped even further and Athos pushed relentlessly. The boy had to learn to separate feeling from fighting.

d'Artagnan stormed off, and Athos spread his hands innocently against Treville’s glare. “I was trying to provoke him.”

“You seem to have succeeded. Come with me.” They headed up to the office and Treville passed a piece of paper to him.

Athos scanned it, frowned, and looked at it again. “This is d'Artagnan’s farm.”

“It _was_ his farm,” Treville agreed. “It’s one of the many LaBarge destroyed.”

“You told him this?”

“I could hardly keep it from him.”

Athos put the paper down, scowling. “Without his farm, he has no income.”

“I’m aware.”

“He needs the commission.”

Treville shook his head. “No.”

“He has all but passed…”

“All but doesn’t count, Athos. There is no leeway here. He passes or he doesn’t.” He sighed, looking down at his desk. “I think you’re right, for what it’s worth. He has it in him to pass.”

“I’m sure that will comfort him when he’s living in the gutter.”

“Careful,” Treville warned him. “I like the boy. I want him to be a Musketeer. But the requirement does not bend. Not for any man.” He studied Athos for a moment. “I won’t warn you not to talk to him about it. I know you better than that. But I cannot recommend him to the king yet.”

“He so much as told me.”

“Then I will so much as recommend him. Don’t make me keep turning you down, Athos. You know I don’t want to. If he passes the competition to become Musketeer Champion I will allow him to compete; if he catches the king’s eye he may gain a place in another regiment.”

“He won’t accept it, you know that.”

“He may have to, now. It’s all I can do, Athos.”

Athos took a deep breath. “To pass the competition, he needs the entry fee.”

“That’s out of my hands. You know that d'Artagnan would not thank us if he thought we were letting him pass.”

“No,” Athos muttered. “He wouldn’t. Stubborn boy.”

“Go after him. Keep an eye on him. This LaBarge thing…I don’t like it.”

Athos tipped his hat, heading downstairs. d'Artagnan would be easy to trail; he hadn’t learned anything about hiding his path yet. Athos would let him go where he wanted for now.

 

Athos didn't know what to expect when he reached LaBarge's cell. d'Artagnan might be his equal on a technical level, but he was nowhere near ready to face someone like LaBarge, especially not with no one to watch his back.

He burst into the cell, sword already in hand. LaBarge was lounging on his bunk, hands folded behind his head; he smirked at Athos' entrance. "You're a bit late."

Athos turned enough to follow the man's gaze without looking away from him. d'Artagnan was huddled against the wall on the other side of the cell, almost hidden by the shadows. Athos crossed to kneel beside him, reluctant to touch him; the knees up, head down posture screamed 'leave me alone.' "d'Artagnan," he murmured.

d'Artagnan didn't move, and Athos leaned closer, realising that he was talking. Or, not talking, exactly; words were falling out of him in a single, unbroken stream, on and on.

"Kill them all tie them up lock them in burn it down the screams the screams it's good more more blood more screams who's next no surrender no prisoners no mercy kill them all the screams the screams burn them down –“

Athos twisted to glare at LaBarge, who lifted his hands innocently. "Barely even put a hand on him. He just went down all on his lonesome." He swung his legs to the side, sitting up.

"Make another move and it will be your last," Athos warned him.

LaBarge smirked. "Interesting, to see a Musketeer come chasing after an empath. And you ain't surprised, either. Cardinal might like to hear about this."

Athos ignored him, wrapping one hand around d'Artagnan's arm. He was reluctant to touch him, but he couldn't leave him here. He was wearing his gloves, and he kept his grip on the outside of d'Artagnan's tunic, jerkin and cloak. If cloth was a barrier at all, it might help.

d'Artagnan was pliant but unhelpful. He didn't seem to realise they were walking, and after a couple of moments Athos wrapped his other arm around d'Artagnan's waist to support his weight. That made things a little easier; he got them out of the prison, anyway. The damned muttering never stopped, on and on in an endless loop.

d'Artagnan threw up outside the gate, and again a street away, and again a few buildings after that. Athos let him down after the third time; he immediately scooted until he could get his back against a wall and pulled back into the huddle again, burying his head in his arms. Athos crouched beside him, looking around.

A beggar boy was sitting on a nearby doorstep. Athos whistled sharply for his attention, holding up a coin. "You know Porthos?"

" 'course," the boy said promptly.

"Good. Go to the Musketeer garrison, tell him Athos sent you. Have him bring Aramis here immediately. Do you understand?"

"Garrison, Athos, Aramis," the boy repeated.

"Good." Athos flipped him the coin. "There's another two when you bring them back here, and another five if they get here before St Gizlaine's next rings the bells." That gave him about thirty minutes, plenty of time if they were at the garrison and not on duty somewhere or off charming their patronesses.

The boy raced off and Athos turned back to d'Artagnan. "I don't know how to help you," he murmured. "I wish you had talked to us before today."

Porthos appeared about twenty minutes later, the beggar boy riding on his shoulders and Aramis at his side. Athos tossed his purse to the boy and waved him away; Aramis was already on his knees beside them, studying d'Artagnan without touching him. "What happened?"

"He went to challenge LaBarge, and when I caught up to them..." Athos shook his head helplessly.

"I don't see any injuries. Has he spoken to you?"

"Not _to_ me, no." Aramis glanced up, and Athos added, "Listen to him."

Aramis leaned in, listening with a frown. "What is that?"

Athos glanced around for Porthos to draw him in. "Something he took from LaBarge, I think." For Porthos' sake, he added "He's talking about burning and killing, after all."

Aramis looked at him sharply. "Athos..."

"Let's not pretend right now. We all know well enough what he is. Can you help him?"

"Not here. Can he walk?"

"Not really."

"I'll get him wherever you need him," Porthos said.

"No. You go to the Bonacieux house," Aramis said quickly. "Find his rosary."

"Is the state of his immortal soul really our concern here, Aramis?" Athos demanded.

Aramis ignored him, watching Porthos. "If Constance doesn't know, tear his room apart. If it's not there, tear the house apart. We _need_ it. And when you find it, don't touch it with bare fingers. Wrap it in a handkerchief, or something."

Porthos nodded. "Where'll I bring it?"

"We're going to the church on Rue Plummet, do you know it?"

"Passed by it a few times. I'll be quick as I can."

"Good." Aramis turned to Athos as Porthos loped off. "Try and be calm. Our upset will not help him."

Athos took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Aramis watched, nodding. "Good."

"Let's go," Athos said quietly.

They had to stop twice more for d'Artagnan to be sick. When they reached the church Aramis spoke with a priest, who nodded and led them to a particular cell in a row of abandoned ones. "This is the one he uses, monsieurs. Is there anything you need?"

"Only privacy," Aramis said, helping Athos to lay him down on the pallet. d'Artagnan immediately pulled into the huddle again, wedging himself into the corner. "A Musketeer called Porthos is coming with something to help him. It's very important that he find us with no delay."

"I will see to it myself," the priest promised. "And I will pray for him and for you all."

"Thank you," Athos murmured, closing the door behind him. " 'This is the one he uses' ?" he repeated.

Aramis glanced up briefly from trying to coax d'Artagnan from the corner. "When he needs quiet and solitude, yes. I arranged it for him months ago, long before I knew what he is." Looking back at d'Artagnan, he grimaced. "I need to get a hand on him."

"Can we? It won’t make it worse for him – or for you?"

"I don't think he can hear anything past LaBarge right now. We won't hurt him. Help me get some of his clothes off, anyway. He may as well be comfortable."

They pulled off boots, cloak, weapons belt. Aramis considered him for a long moment before shaking his head. "Jerkin, too."

"Aramis," Athos said quietly, propping d'Artagnan up to free the laces. "You're not a mind healer."

"We don't have one to hand, and if we did we couldn't tell them about d'Artagnan anyway. I don't have a choice." He looked up to meet Athos' eyes. "Don't touch either one of us."

"I don't like this."

"I don't either, but it has to be done." Aramis took a deep breath, reaching out to wrap his hand around d'Artagnan's arm.

And immediately let go, scrambling backwards across the floor until he hit the far wall. "Merciful God."

"What?" Athos demanded. Still propping d'Artagnan up, he didn't dare move. "Aramis."

"I'm all right," Aramis managed. He pressed a shaky hand to his forehead. "I'm all right."

"What happened?"

"He isn't shielding." Aramis forced a deep breath, relaxing himself. "I've never...he's completely tangled up in there."

"Can you help him? Now that you know?"

"I think so, yes. But I need the rosary beads."

"Why? What's important about them?"

Aramis pinched the bridge of his nose briefly. "They're – familiar. He knows them. He uses them as a foundation when he's in trouble. They'll anchor him, and once there's an anchor he can find his way back."

"Are you sure?"

"Not remotely. But it's the only thing I can think of. He refused to speak of his Ability."

Athos studied him. "So you know. And not just the way we all know; you actually _know_."

"Yes. Since Marsac. And he knows of me, a little. But he won't _listen_ , Athos. I've tried to tell him about the Musketeers, to explain to him that he's safe. He just won't hear me. And he would have run if I'd kept pushing."

"You did right," Athos assured him. "Although why you didn't tell us..."

"He demanded my word, and I was reluctant to break it until it became necessary."

Someone tapped on the door and the priest pushed it open, stepping aside to let Porthos in. "Anything else, monsieur Aramis?"

"Not right now, Father. Thank you."

The priest retreated again, and Porthos held up a bundled up handkerchief. "Took this from his own, should be safe."

"Good," Aramis said with a sigh. "Athos, hold out his hand."

Porthos carefully tipped the beads into d'Artagnan's hand. His fingers tightened convulsively over them, but there was no other change, and when Athos let go of his wrist he wrapped his arm around his legs again.

"That supposed to happen?" Porthos asked quietly.

"There's no _supposed to_ here, Porthos." Aramis shuffled backwards until he could lean against the wall. "We can only hope that this helps."

"And if it doesn't?"

"If it doesn't, I have no other ideas."


	9. The Challenge, part 2

Some interminable length of time later, Athos lifted his head. "Aramis. He's stopped talking."

Aramis scooted across to sit on the edge of the pallet, cupping d'Artagnan's cheek in one hand. "Oh, my boy," he murmured. "We _have_ to get you trained."

"Is he better?" Porthos asked.

"He's getting there. I'm going to send him to sleep for a time; he'll never get there on his own, not with LaBarge shouting in his head like that. Sleep will help him."

"Will it?" Athos asked.

Aramis let go of d'Artagnan as he relaxed against Athos. "Sleep rarely harms anyone. It won't heal him the way it does you, he'll still have to work his shields back up when he wakes. But at least he'll be pain free for a while. Lay him down, and make sure he doesn't drop that rosary."

Athos obeyed, watching d'Artagnan for a moment. "Perhaps Porthos and I should go to see Treville, let him know what's happened."

"What?" Porthos protested.

"The fewer of us here when he wakes up, the better. Aramis should stay."

Aramis nodded wearily. "It's a good idea. He may be very sensitive when he wakes, I don't know."

"Can we bring you anything first? You should eat."

"I should eat," Aramis agreed. "And see if they have anything I can have ready for d'Artagnan. I don't know if he needs food the way I do, but it certainly won't hurt."

"Consider it done," Athos agreed, slipping out of the room.

Porthos crouched beside the pallet for a moment, studying d'Artagnan. "Poor kid. He gonna be right now?"

"I hope so. I honestly don't know. He's not like anyone else I've known."

"You've known empaths before. Must've. There've been empaths in the Musketeers."

"Yes," Aramis agreed. "And all could read people or objects, with effort. Never both. d'Artagnan reads both with such ease and doesn't seem to realise it's unusual."

Porthos leaned forward, pointing without touching. "He's bruising, look. All along his neck. LaBarge must've got a hand on him."

Aramis leaned forward, brushing his fingers over the bruises; they faded under his touch. "Must have," he agreed. 

"Surely the boy was shielding. He shields against you, you told us so."

"Shields can be overcome," Aramis said bleakly. "And a man like LaBarge..."

Athos slipped back in, carrying stew and bread and a waterskin. "Only water, I'm afraid, but the priest offered mead if you want it."

"Water's better. Thank you." Aramis accepted the armload, tearing a small amount of bread off for himself and leaving the rest to one side.

"Do you want us to come back later?" Athos asked.

Aramis shook his head. "If we're not with you by lunchtime tomorrow, then come back. Not before that."

"Very well. Your priest knows that we're leaving, he's ready to help you if you need it."

"Thank you."

He ate the stew and drank a little water and then settled himself down as comfortably as he could. His and d'Artagnan's cloaks made a comfortable enough pallet. He'd spent worse nights.

He drifted for a while, never really asleep, listening for movement. Inducing sleep was tricky and he was never sure how long anyone would stay asleep, and he didn't want to miss it if d'Artagnan woke and needed him.

It was almost dawn before he heard any movement, and when he peered through the gloom it seemed that d'Artagnan had only rolled over. Frowning, he leaned closer. d'Artagnan's shoulders were shaking.

"d'Artagnan?" he murmured. d'Artagnan drew in more tightly on himself, ignoring him. Aramis settled carefully on the edge of the pallet; d'Artagnan’s back was to him, but he didn’t need to see his face right now. “d'Artagnan, may I touch you?”

“ ‘M not hurt,” d'Artagnan mumbled.

“Not physically, maybe,” Aramis agreed. “If I touch you, will it hurt you?”

“No.” d'Artagnan drew in a deep breath. “Just don’t Look at me.”

Aramis let his hand rest on d'Artagnan’s ribs, keeping his tunic firmly between them. “Cloth doesn’t always block you, does it?” he asked softly.

“Never for people. Sometimes for things.”

“For me, cloth is a very effective barrier. Of course, so is anything else. For my Ability to work in any measure, I have to have skin contact.” He pressed lightly against the tunic beneath his palm. “I can See nothing now.”

d'Artagnan shuddered, reaching up to catch Aramis’ hand. He had it caught under a fold of the thin blanket, keeping a layer between them.

“Is this something LaBarge has done?” Aramis asked gently. “Or something you have done?”

“Not LaBarge.” He shuddered again. “Not – me, not on purpose. It’s so…” He curled himself up more tightly, dragging Aramis’ hand with him. “I can’t get out of his head,” he whispered. “He killed my friends, my people, and he enjoyed it. He’s making _me_ enjoy it, Aramis, I can hear them screaming and I _like_ it…”

“No, you don’t,” Aramis told him. “That’s all him, d'Artagnan. It’s just him. Let it go. Here.” He reached for d'Artagnan’s other hand, pressing his fingers against the beads. “These. Tell me. Who owned them before your mother?”

d'Artagnan pressed the beads against his forehead, trembling. “Her father.”

“Before that?”

“It’s too far…”

“It’s not. Not for these beads, d'Artagnan. You know them, you’ve always known them. Let them drown LaBarge out. He’s nothing. Tell me about the beads.”

d'Artagnan shook his head. “Aramis…”

“Pray,” Aramis suggested desperately. “You pray on these?”

“Gascon.”

“Pray in Gascon, then. d'Artagnan, teach me the prayers in Gascon.”

d'Artagnan jerked out of his grip, scrabbling upright until he could press his back against the wall. “I burned them alive and I _laughed!_ ”

Aramis leaned forward, pressing a hand to each side of d'Artagnan’s face. “ _No_ ,” he said firmly. “That was all LaBarge. Listen to me; focus on me. On me,” he repeated firmly when d'Artagnan’s eyes started to wander. “Listen to me. Can you sense me? Can you feel what I’m feeling? Tell me.”

d'Artagnan forced his eyes back into focus. “Aramis…”

“What am I feeling?”

“Worried. You’re worried about me.”

“Good. Do I think you’ve hurt anyone?”

d'Artagnan studied him. “No.”

“Good,” Aramis repeated more softly. “Listen to me. I can’t quiet him for long. I’m not that kind of healer. You have to clear him out. Do it now, while I can still hold him here. Remember who you are. Get rid of everything else.”

“Everything else,” d'Artagnan murmured, eyes falling closed.

Aramis held him in balance as long as he could, far longer than he should; he wouldn’t be able to do much for the next couple of days, but he could feel d'Artagnan easing under his touch and that made it worth anything he suffered.

Eventually he felt himself starting to slip. “d'Artagnan,” he murmured. “I have to let go. Do you have it?”

“Mmm.” d'Artagnan nodded. “Don’t leave me alone.”

“No. I’m not going anywhere. I just have to let go.”

He did it as gently as he could. d'Artagnan stiffened when he withdrew; Aramis gripped his arms, over his tunic, and he relaxed again.

“Talk to me,” he said after a while.

“About?”

“Anything. Pray. Sing. Noise.”

Aramis smiled faintly. “Well, I won’t inflict my singing on you, I don’t believe that would help. Has anyone told you about the _first_ time Porthos shot anything off my head?”

He talked for a long time, feeling d'Artagnan skirt in and out of sleep. Every time he woke up he was clearer, more himself, and eventually Aramis retrieved the bread and water and made him take it.

“How do you feel?” he asked when d'Artagnan was finished.

“More like me.” d'Artagnan looked away, eyes dark. “I can hear them. I don’t think I’ll ever stop. But I know who I am, now.”

Aramis squeezed his shoulder lightly. “I’m glad.”

“How did you stop him?”

Aramis shrugged. “He was poison. Didn’t belong in you. But he was in your mind, and I’m not a mind healer. I couldn’t stop him. Only slow him.”

“It was enough.” d'Artagnan smiled faintly. “It was everything. Thank you.” Glancing up, he added, “The others are coming.”

“Huh. It doesn’t feel like lunch time.”

“They’re impatient,” d'Artagnan added. A moment later, “They’re not coming in.”

“Naturally. Wait around outside the empath’s room, that won’t disturb him at all…d'Artagnan, breathe. Yes, they know about you, but you’re _safe_. If you’d let me tell you months ago, you’d know this. _Listen_ to me. Let me call them in.”

d'Artagnan nodded, visibly holding onto his calm. Aramis stood, crossing to the door and leaning out into the corridor.

“You can come in,” he told the others. “Be careful. He’s still a little jumpy.”

“But better, yeah?” Porthos asked.

“Much. You’ll see.”

He stepped aside for them, closing the door. d'Artagnan was sitting cross legged on the bed when he looked back over, back straight and tense and eyes down.

“d'Artagnan,” he said quietly, and when d'Artagnan looked up, he said, “I will make sure no one hurts you. True?”

d'Artagnan swallowed, looking away. “You believe that.”

“You still haven’t let him tell you, have you,” Athos said, sounding amused. “d'Artagnan, the Musketeers all have Abilities.”

d'Artagnan stared at him for a long time. “What?” he said finally.

Porthos slid down the wall to sit. “It suits the King to have access to Abilities when he needs ‘em. Every country has something like us, some group hidden away in plain sight. We keep it hidden by never talking about it, even among ourselves, and by never using our Abilities when anyone can see us.”

“The requirement,” d'Artagnan said slowly. “ _No man is told about it until he passes_.”

“Yes,” Athos agreed. “I suspected you after Bonnaire. I believe Aramis learned about you a little after that. Porthos was a little slower, but then you hide it well.”

“Had to,” d'Artagnan muttered. “Gascony’s not a good place to have an Ability.”

“Aramis tells me you know about him. And I think you suspect me.”

d'Artagnan nodded, but he was pulled in tightly on himself; Athos caught Aramis’ eye, silently agreeing to leave it for now.

Porthos studied him critically. “You look better.”

“I feel better.”

“What happened?” Athos asked, crouching beside him.

“Careful,” Aramis added warningly. d'Artagnan had a propensity for getting lost in his own thoughts when talking about his Ability; it was a habit he shared with most of the empaths Aramis had known, but he thought they should avoid it in this case.

“I’m all right,” d'Artagnan assured him. To Athos, he added, “I was shielding. I was. But LaBarge – he’s _evil_. Bonnaire didn’t care, the Cardinal’s more or less amoral. LaBarge _enjoyed_ everything he did. He’d do it all again if he could. I’ve never – felt anything like it before. He got inside me, I couldn’t get him out.”

“Careful,” Aramis said again. d'Artagnan’s breathing was speeding up.

“I’m all right,” d'Artagnan repeated.

“You’re ok now?” Porthos asked.

“Yes. Aramis helped me. I’m fine. I could face him again, even.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Athos shifted to sit. “Now, d'Artagnan. Tell us what we need to know about your Ability.”

 

d'Artagnan stepped out of the Bonacieux house, heading towards the garrison. The competition for the Musketeer champion was starting, and even if he couldn’t compete, he wanted to watch the others. He might not be able to soon, after all; if he couldn’t pay his rent he’d be forced home to try and repair the farm.

Milady stepped out from behind a tree, and d'Artagnan paused. “What are you doing here?”

“I have something I think you need.” She held up a small purse, tossing it to him.

He wasn’t wearing his gloves, and the rush of feelings from the purse made him hesitate. She didn’t mean him any harm, though – she wanted him to succeed, for some reason – so he opened it to look inside.

“Thirty livre,” she said off handedly. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

“What’s the catch?” There was something; she wanted something very badly.

“I just want you to compete.”

_Lie_. d'Artagnan considered for a moment. Athos wanted him to play along; Milady was the Cardinal’s creature now, and it could be useful.

“I’ll accept it. As a loan,” he added, in case he needed an out later. “I’ll pay you back when I win.”

Milady smiled, turning away. d'Artagnan glanced down as his fingers touched a chain, hesitating. “What’s this?”

“It’s just a good luck charm,” she said airily. “And a token of my friendship.”

Lying again, but he couldn’t see what she really meant. He nodded vaguely, and she turned away again.

Something flared in the house, some strange satisfaction on M Bonacieux’s part. d'Artagnan ignored it, heading for the garrison.

Athos was sitting at the table, picking at a bowl. d'Artagnan dropped the purse between them and sat opposite him.

“How are you feeling?” Athos asked, eyeing the purse.

“I’m fine; I told you yesterday I was fine.”

“Yesterday you were not quite yourself. You should really talk to Treville, you know.”

d'Artagnan waved it away. “I saw your wife.”

Athos stiffened. “Did you.”

“She paid my entry fee for the contest. She wants me to compete.” He picked up the purse, digging out the chain and tossing it between them.

Athos reached out, reluctance in every movement, and turned the little pendant so he could see the flower on it. “Why does she want you to compete?”

“She wants me to be a Musketeer. She has some kind of long term plan. I just – I can’t see what.”

“What did you say?” Athos nudged the chain back towards him, and d'Artagnan slid it back into the purse.

“Told her I would take it as a loan. You told me to play along.”

“I did,” Athos agreed. “I should not have. Anne is dangerous, d'Artagnan.”

“I can deal with it.” d'Artagnan caught his look and rolled his eyes. “If I think it’s getting too much, I will back away and let you know. She needs me willing for whatever it is.”

“Good. I will hold you to that.”

d'Artagnan tied the purse back onto his belt. “Where is the captain?”

“In his office. Do you want me to come?”

“Please,” he said, relieved. This would be difficult to talk about, and Athos’ support would be welcome. “Does he know anything?”

Athos considered. “He knows that we suspected you. But Porthos and I did not tell him what happened yesterday; we only said that LaBarge had injured you. Since we knew few details of your Ability, we thought it best you explained yourself.”

“Thank you.”

"Not that we know much more now," Athos added.

d'Artagnan shrugged, rising to his feet and heading for the stairs. He'd been too tired and worn down to talk much yesterday, though he'd promised to tell them more when they had time. They knew the basics; what he could and couldn’t Read, what happened when he overstretched himself, how he recovered himself and how they could help when necessary. They’d learn the rest in time.

Treville waved them in when they knocked. “d'Artagnan. Are you recovered? Athos told me LaBarge injured you.”

“I’m quite well, Captain.”

“And do you plan to compete?”

“I do, sir.”

“Good.” Treville shot a look at Athos. “Something I can help you with?”

“Yes, sir.” d'Artagnan squared his shoulders. “Captain Treville, if I’m to have any chance of serving as a Musketeer, you should know that I have an Ability. It’s nothing dangerous and I would never use it against a Musketeer or against France.”

Treville leaned back in his seat, steepling his fingers. “Indeed. What Ability might that be?”

“I’m an empath, sir.”

“An empath,” he repeated.

“Aramis tells me I’m unusual; I can read people and things, both.”

“That is unusual,” he agreed. Glancing around, he gestured to an inkwell on the sideboard. “Tell me something about that.”

d'Artagnan crossed to look at it, studying it without touching for a moment before picking it up. “Your wife has good taste, sir.” Frowning, he added, “Did you knock someone out with it?”

Treville laughed softly. “He deserved it.”

“I don’t doubt it.” d'Artagnan put it back exactly where he’d taken it from, looking back at Treville. “What’s wrong?”

“Wrong?” Treville repeated.

“He has a habit of doing that,” Athos murmured.

d'Artagnan glared at him. “Something about the challenge?”

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Treville said briskly. “Go on back to the yard. I’ll be out shortly to begin the contest.”

d'Artagnan started to protest; Athos caught his eye, shaking his head, and he subsided. “May I ask what your Ability is, sir?”

“You may ask,” Treville said without looking up. “Back to the yard, gentlemen.”

Athos caught d'Artagnan's arm, tugging him out of the office. “Even we do not ask each other,” he murmured. “If someone tells you, or they use it where you can see; then you may ask. Not before that.” 

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, just remember it.”

Porthos was down in the yard, and Aramis arrived a few minutes later, and Captain Treville came behind him to gather up the entry fees.

“Where did you get the money?” Aramis asked when d'Artagnan threw his in. He’d retrieved the chain; he didn’t want Treville seeing it.

“I have found a patron of my own,” d'Artagnan said, catching Athos’ eye.

“A wealthy widow?” Aramis asked, already losing interest.

“Not to my knowledge.”

Treville shouted for them to begin the competition, and the subject was dropped.

 

He knew his decision would be unpopular. He was watching the Inseparables as he made the announcement; d'Artagnan turned and stormed out, Aramis and Porthos looked confused, and Athos – Athos was angry.

Treville retreated to his office, but Athos wasn’t far behind him. “This is wrong,” he announced. “And dangerous.”

“This challenge is my doing,” Treville said wearily. “It’s my responsibility to see it through.”

“Instead of giving yourself one last moment of glory, you should be giving d'Artagnan the chance to win his commission from the King.”

“You think this is about glory,” Treville murmured. That stung; he’d thought Athos had more faith in him than that.

“All I know is that d'Artagnan has it in him to be a fine Musketeer. Perhaps the greatest of us all. But now we’ll never know, because you have _stolen_ his best chance to prove himself.”

“d'Artagnan’s young; he’ll have other chances. This isn’t the fight for him.”

Athos hesitated, studying him. “You’ve Seen something.”

Treville shrugged, not bothering to correct him. His Ability, to See things happening in other places, was rarely useful in and of itself, but it did help him explain away certain decisions. “This is not the right fight for him. I thought it before I learned of his Ability, and I’m certain of it now. We’ll get him his commission.”

“He has no _time_.”

“My decision is final. I’m sorry, Athos. You’ll have to find another way.” Athos scowled, and Treville sighed. “Athos, you know that I always try and do my best for the men of the regiment.”

“As you so kindly keep pointing out, _Captain_ , d'Artagnan has not yet received his commission.”

“That makes him no less one of my men. I am trying to protect him. You can argue my methods all you like, Athos, but I’ve made my decision and it’s final. I’m sorry.”

Athos turned away, heading downstairs, and Treville allowed himself a moment before going back to his work.


	10. The Challenge, part 3

“Treville has taken the fight himself.” d'Artagnan leaned against a chair, sighing.

For a moment he thought Constance wasn’t going to answer; then she stirred. “Well then, I suppose that puts an end to your daydream.”

“What do you mean?” d'Artagnan frowned; something was breaking Constance’s heart.

“We were fooling ourselves, d'Artagnan. There’s no future for us together.”

She didn’t believe a word of it.

“This silly flirtation has to end.”

“I love you.”

“I don’t love you.”

She didn’t believe that, either.

d'Artagnan shook his head, cutting off whatever she was about to say. “Constance, stop. You don’t mean that, I know you don’t. What’s happened, why are you saying this?”

“We can’t be together. I don’t want you.”

d'Artagnan shook his head, suddenly aware of M Bonacieux somewhere very close. He was enjoying every minute of this. “You’re lying.”

“No.” Constance wasn’t meeting his eyes. “This thing, this fling, it’s over, d'Artagnan.”

d'Artagnan caught her arm, pulling her in so he could press his lips to her ear. “Your husband found out,” he breathed. Constance gripped at his shoulders, nodding. “He threatened you?” A head shake, and he frowned. “He threatened me? He can’t hurt me.”

“He works for the Cardinal now,” Constance said, so softly he could barely hear her. “Please, d'Artagnan. Shout and throw something and leave. Don’t come near me again.”

“Constance…”

“I won’t see you. I’ll give you up before I let him hurt you.”

That part, she meant. d'Artagnan pulled back, gripping her hands and kissing them gently. “I’ll find a way,” he breathed, before saying more loudly “So that’s it? You’re just throwing us away?”

“I’m a married woman. You can’t even secure a commission. I can’t risk everything I have for you.”

d'Artagnan stepped back, hurt even though he knew she didn’t mean it. “I hope you’ll be very happy with your husband,” he said coldly. “Maybe your money will make up for your loneliness.”

The satisfaction M Bonacieux was feeling was almost enough to make him change his mind, but he didn’t dare. He pressed his fingers to his lips, watching Constance until she nodded, and then he stormed out as loudly as he could.

The others were already at the challenge grounds. d'Artagnan climbed over a tent rope to find a spot between Athos and Porthos, leaning towards Athos. "Talk to you later."

"Mmm."

Captain Treville stepped out of his tent to enter the ring, and d'Artagnan applauded along with the others. He wasn't childish enough to wish harm on the captain; he'd chosen to fight and d'Artagnan hoped he did well.

He wasn't sure why Treville was dreading the fight so much, until the herald announced the Red Guard's champion.

Athos' fingers dug into his arm, just above his elbow. "Get your shield up." Porthos had drawn in closer on his other side, ready to help if needed; Aramis was watching them, one eye on Treville.

"The captain's not surprised," he noted.

"He knew," Athos agreed. "That's why he took the fight himself. d'Artagnan?"

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan assured him. "I'm shielded."

"How long can you keep that up?"

"Long enough for this."

LaBarge was cheating, openly. d'Artagnan and the others watched, ready to intervene if they had to, holding back out of respect for Treville. When LaBarge stamped on Treville's shoulder d'Artagnan shook his head. "He's going to kill him. Athos..." Athos drew his sword, charging onto the field; the other Musketeers followed, and the Red Guards swarmed on in defence of their captain.

"Hold!" Louis shouted. d'Artagnan shoved his opponent away, backing towards the Musketeers. Aramis had used the fight to get Treville on his feet and was examining his shoulder.

"Your man broke the rules, Cardinal," Louis continued. "Captain Treville may nominate another Champion, if he chooses."

Treville looked at Athos for a long moment before turning to Louis, bowing as respectfully as he could. "I nominate d'Artagnan to take my place."

"d'Artagnan isn't a Musketeer," Richelieu protested.

"An' he's an empath!" LaBarge added. "I ain't fighting him!"

"Then you forfeit the challenge and the Musketeers win," Athos said easily. 

"Accusing anyone of an Ability is dangerous," Louis added. "I would be careful what accusations you are throwing around, LaBarge."

"Do you forfeit?" Athos insisted.

LaBarge looked up at Richelieu, who shook his head. "The challenge stands. My captain will beat your apprentice."

"I wish I remembered burning down your farm," LaBarge shouted as they met in the centre of the arena. "It'd make this even sweeter."

d'Artagnan lifted his blade in salute, letting the words wash over him and fall away. Without the emotion behind them, they made far less impact anyway. LaBarge kept shouting; d'Artagnan ignored it, letting him waste his energy on it. LaBarge was big, and heavy, and he put a lot of strength into his hits. d'Artagnan was quickly wearing down; he had to finish this, fast.

He barely noticed it when it happened, moving on instinct into the gap in LaBarge’s defences; a slice across the belly was followed by twisting LaBarge’s own sword to stab through him the heart. The man collapsed into d'Artagnan’s arms, and he held him up long enough to murmur “That was for the people of Gascony.” Then he stepped back, letting LaBarge fall to the ground at his feet.

The Musketeers surrounded him, Athos and Aramis clapping him on the shoulders. d'Artagnan leaned into the touches, exhausted and touch-hungry now that he couldn’t Read them.

“Bravo, d'Artagnan,” Louis announced. “I hereby declare the Musketeer regiment the winners.” He applauded, and everyone else joined in; d'Artagnan caught a glimpse of the Cardinal’s face and smiled to himself.

“The prize money is forfeit to the treasury,” Louis added. “After all, the rules were broken.” He stepped past the Cardinal, coming onto the field.

d'Artagnan bowed, aware of the Musketeers drawing back a step as Louis approached.

"You defended your Captain with great heroism today," he said approvingly. d'Artagnan nodded quickly. "I admire loyalty more than any other virtue. We need more men like you serving France. Is that not so, Cardinal?"

"There is still the matter of the accusation, your majesty," Richelieu pointed out.

Athos took a half step forward. "An accusation made by a criminal who had no wish to face d'Artagnan, your majesty."

"Indeed. We have heard criminals say many things in an attempt to save themselves," Louis agreed. "A place will be found for you in one of my regiments, d'Artagnan."

d'Artagnan bowed, exhausted and not sure he could muster the words to argue for his wish to stay with the Musketeers. "Thank you, your majesty."

“Your majesty, if I may?" Treville asked. Louis nodded him to go ahead, and he continued "d'Artagnan passes every requirement for service in the Musketeers. He has excelled in every assignment he's been given, and I would be honoured to have him under my command."

"That seems to take care of everything," Louis said happily. "Doesn't it, Armand?"

"Indeed, your majesty. A glowing recommendation. Our young friend must be very talented."

"Well, we know he is, we've just seen him defeat your man. Please kneel, d'Artagnan."

Exhausted and still muffled in shields, d'Artagnan had followed very little of the conversation. He blinked confusedly as Louis turned away.

Athos' bare fingers wrapped around his wrist, jolting him enough to get his attention. "Get on your knees before he changes his mind."

Still not sure what was happening, d'Artagnan sank to one knee. Louis returned, sword in hand, and tipped d'Artagnan's shoulders lightly. "I hereby commission you into my regiment of Musketeers. May you serve it always with the same distinction that I witnessed today."

Athos' fingers brushed d'Artagnan's neck as he secured a Musketeer's pauldron to his shoulder. d'Artagnan stared down at it, noting vaguely that they'd had it ready, as though they were expecting this.

Athos squeezed his shoulder as he stepped away, and d'Artagnan looked back at Louis. "Thank you, your majesty."

Louis smiled. "I will be keeping an eye on you, young d'Artagnan. I expect great things from you."

"Thank you," d'Artagnan repeated. Louis nodded, turning away and returning to the pavilion; the Cardinal lingered for a moment, watching them, before following him.

d'Artagnan stood, all but falling into Aramis' arms; Aramis laughed softly, catching the side of his neck gently, and d'Artagnan felt the rush of borrowed energy and the easing of sore muscles. "That won't last long," Aramis warned him under his breath. "Get yourself somewhere you can relax."

"Yes," d'Artagnan promised, stepping away from him to hug Porthos and shake Athos' hand.

Treville was watching, one hand bracing his shoulder. d'Artagnan hesitated, looking at it. "Is it very bad?"

"Not so bad. I've had worse." 

And Aramis had already been at it; at the very least, it probably wasn’t hurting him any more. d'Artagnan nodded. "Thank you, sir. For everything."

"The pauldron's been yours for a while, d'Artagnan. It's just been waiting for you to pass the last requirement."

d'Artagnan frowned. “I only told you earlier today.”

"I think you misunderstand. Having the Ability is not the requirement. Talking to your brothers about it is. We trust each other with everything, d'Artagnan. Even this. We suspected you for a while, you know that, and we’ve known for longer. But we couldn’t do anything until you came to us, freely and without compulsion."

d'Artagnan looked down, shaking his head. "I didn't – tell them on purpose, Captain."

"That's not how I heard it from Aramis. He told me you revealed yourself to him in an effort to help him when Marsac died – and then swore him to silence, thus blocking your own advancement in the regiment. Have I been misinformed?"

"No, but –“

“And you came to me of your own free will yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but –“ d'Artagnan shook his head. “Known? Athos said he suspected…”

“He did,” Treville agreed. “Aramis kept your silence, but Athos – without telling me, you understand – told me he suspected. We have a member of the regiment who knows when others have an Ability, and he agreed with us that you were eligible. But you are required to come to me and freely speak, and until you did that there was nothing we could do for you.”

“Athos told me about the regiment yesterday, Captain. I wasn’t coming to you on faith.”

Treville studied him for a moment. “I grew up in Gascony, you know. Not quite Lupiac, but I know what it was like living there with an Ability that is – not always easy to hide. Believing in anyone who says you are safe is not easy.”

“I trust them,” d'Artagnan murmured. “And you, Captain.”

“Good.” Glancing over d'Artagnan’s shoulder, he added, “That said, I wouldn’t mention their – help – too loudly. You are supposed to pass the requirement alone.”

“It was kind of necessary, Captain, he was about to bolt,” Porthos said, joining them and slinging an arm around d'Artagnan’s shoulder.

“Hmm. Necessary or not, let’s keep it between ourselves.”

“Captain…” d'Artagnan swallowed. “I –“

"d'Artagnan," Porthos said patiently. "Thank the Captain and let's go. We're wasting drinking time, 'specially if you're planning on going off meditating 'stead of partying like anyone in his right mind would."

d'Artagnan laughed helplessly, looking back at the Captain. "Thank you, sir. For everything."

"Go let the men get you drunk," Treville said, waving him off.

Aramis came to his side, studying the injury. "I'll catch up with you," he said absently to the others.

"Come on." Porthos draped an arm over d'Artagnan's shoulder, leading him away. "Let's go."

“You cheated,” d'Artagnan murmured as they headed towards Athos.

“Yeah, little bit.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Porthos shrugged. “ ‘Cos we knew you belong here. Look, we got Athos through the requirement; we’d’ve gotten you there, eventually. There’s no rule against any of us telling you about ourselves. We just – broadened the interpretation, a little.”

“You cheated.”

“Hand back the commission, then.” He tugged lightly at the pauldron; d'Artagnan slapped him away.

“Get off, I earned that!”

“Yeah.” Porthos grinned, clapping a hand to the back of his neck. “You did.”

 

After LaBarge, after d'Artagnan’s commission, after Aramis had left to join the others, Treville went back to the Louvre to find the king. Richelieu was long gone, off trying to find a new captain probably.

“Ah, captain,” Louis said cheerfully, waving away his manservant. The man left, closing the door behind himself, and Louis continued, “Has your man looked at you?”

“He has, your majesty. I shall make a full recovery.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Louis agreed. “So young d'Artagnan passed your requirements. _Excelled_ , I believe you said.”

“He did, your majesty,” Treville agreed, eyeing a chair. Aramis had Healed him, but he couldn’t help much with tiredness and preferred not to try.

“Sit, Treville, the chair won’t bite. When did you know?”

“He came to me earlier today. Athos and the others learned yesterday; there was some kind of incident, I don’t know the details yet. I’ll find out.”

“If you think it’s necessary. What kind of Ability?”

Treville smiled faintly. Louis, who held no Ability – they were rare in the Royal Houses, for some reason – was endlessly fascinated by those who did and always wanted as many details as possible. “He’s an empath, sire. A powerful one, if Aramis is right.”

“An empath,” Louis repeated. “It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”

“The last empath to serve as a Musketeer died at Savoy, sire.”

“Yes, of course,” Louis murmured. “And he is aware, now? The Musketeers?”

“In general. There’s been little time to give him the specifics. I’ll take care of it.”

“Oh, there’s no rush,” Louis said, waving it away. “You are injured, after all.”

Treville nodded. It always surprised him, just a little, how well Louis – childish, careless Louis – managed this. Cardinal Richelieu, a man who could find any piece of information he wanted, had never been able to prove anything about the Musketeer regiment, and Treville knew he was actively trying. On this one subject, Louis was immovable and unbreakable.

Of course, he believed utterly in the loyalty of Treville in particular and the Musketeers in general, and Treville never allowed any Musketeer to be commissioned if he didn’t believe they’d be loyal. Treville had been the first, risking his own freedom to warn Louis of plans being drawn against him during the tumult of Marie de’ Medici’s overthrow, almost fifteen years ago.

He’d always been surprised at how easily Louis had accepted the Ability, especially as it was illegal under both Church and Secular law. Treville was scrupulous in ensuring that neither he nor his Musketeers ever used their Abilities for anything that could be construed as running against the State’s interests, and Louis allowed them a loose rein, so long as Treville could account for them if asked to.

"You'll keep him with Comte de la Fere and the others?"

Treville nodded without protesting. Louis had never yet used Athos' title in anyone else's hearing. "As far as I recall, it's easier for empaths to stay with the same people, as much as possible. And they make a good team."

"They certainly do," Louis agreed. "When you feel he's ready, bring him along to another meeting. I should like to talk to him."

"I will, your majesty," Treville promised.

"Good. Now go and rest that arm, I want you fighting fit as soon as possible."

Treville bowed obediently. So that he could deny all knowledge if it became necessary, Louis never asked if the Musketeers had used their Abilities for anything specific. Although he certainly knew Aramis had already Healed Treville's shoulder, he would never ask if it had been done.

Treville passed Richelieu on the way out; the Cardinal was protesting at the manservant's refusing to introduce him, and he only paused to scowl at Treville. Treville tipped his hat politely, turning away before he could be caught up in conversation. Sparring with the Cardinal became wearisome, sometimes.

Treville mounted up and headed for the garrison, idly wondering what d'Artagnan would think when he met the real King Louis.

 

Treville glanced up at the knock on his door. It was early, he hadn’t expected to be disturbed quite yet. “Come.”

d'Artagnan pushed the door open without stepping in. “May I talk with you, Captain?”

“Of course. Come in.”

d'Artagnan obeyed, closing the door. Treville watched him fidget for almost a minute before offering “Would you like to call one of the others up here?”

d'Artagnan winced. “No, thank you. I’m sort of practicing on you before I talk to them.”

“I see. Well, that generally works better if you speak.”

“I know. I just – I’m not used to talking so openly about this.”

Treville leaned back in his chair. “This is about your Ability.” d'Artagnan nodded quickly. “You aren’t the first empath we’ve had in the regiment, you know. The last one – well, it’s been some time. I don’t pretend to understand your Ability, but I do have experience dealing with them.”

“I knew I wasn’t the first,” d'Artagnan agreed.

“Tell me what it is you need,” Treville said, waving him to a seat.

d'Artagnan sat, playing absently with a quill on Treville’s desk. “I want to keep working with Athos and the others.”

“I have no plans to split you up.”

“But I _need_ to work with the other Musketeers. More than just training here.”

Treville studied him. “I can arrange that, but I would like to know why.”

d'Artagnan nodded, still playing with the quill. “Do you know much about the shields empaths use, Captain?”

“I know that the stronger the empath, the more they need shields.”

“In Gascony, I rarely needed to shield. There were far fewer people in one place, and almost no strangers; and everything I touched, I’d touched before. I knew everything I was likely to come into contact with. Here in Paris – there are so many people, all the time, all so close. And everything I touch, someone else has touched first – I have to shield, all the time. And that’s easier if I have something to build on.”

“What kind of something?”

He touched the rosary beads he wore around his wrist. “I used these, for a long time. I’ve had them all my life; they’re familiar, I know them. But leaning so hard on one thing, especially one thing that can be taken away from me, it’s not a good idea. I’ve been using Athos and the others as a base, recently.”

Treville frowned. “And yet you want to be assigned away from them.”

“Not _away from them_. It’s more that I need to work with the others. I need to get familiar with how they think, how they feel to me, and I can’t do that when I only see them briefly each day.”

“You want to use them for your base, too.”

“Not in the same way. It takes a lot of time –“ Smiling ruefully, he added “And life threatening situations to get to know someone like that. But the better I know them, the easier everything will be.”

“What kind of time are we looking at here?”

d'Artagnan shook his head. “It will vary from person to person. Some are much easier to get to know than others. And – as far as it’s possible – it’s easier to stay with the same person until I’m done, rather than move around.” He put the quill down carefully. “I don’t want to stop working with the team. Only, maybe, a patrol, a parade. If you can.”

Treville nodded. “That should be possible. Do you want me to talk to Athos?”

“No. I’ll do it. Thank you, Captain.”

He stood, and Treville said “d'Artagnan? I’m curious. Am I part of your shield?”

d'Artagnan nodded. “When I’m in Paris, yes. I can stop if you’d rather.”

“No. More people make it more stable, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then it’s fine. I assume you don’t share anything you might Read.”

“No, of course not.”

“Good. Go and talk to Athos. I’ll see what I can do about getting you onto a patrol in the next few days.”

d'Artagnan hesitated at the door. “…unless it’s something that might hurt someone.”

“Pardon?”

He looked back. “I don’t share anything I might Read. Unless it’s something that might hurt someone. Then I might bring it to someone’s attention. Discretely.”

Treville nodded slowly. “That seems reasonable. We may have to have some discussions on what constitutes ‘hurt’.”

“Of course.” d'Artagnan nodded, turning away to leave.

Treville counted under his breath. He’d reached just short of six hundred seconds – far longer than he’d expected – when Athos knocked on the door, pushing it open in the same move. “Did you approve this?”

“It’s a reasonable request,” Treville said without looking up. “Certainly he can learn from working with other members of the regiment.”

“He’s part of my team.”

Treville looked up, scowling. “And he’s not leaving your team. He’s only asked for experience with other Musketeers. I’ve agreed to it. He needs to know how to work with others, even discounting his – circumstances.” Studying Athos, he added, “He did explain?”

“After a fashion. Much like Aramis, he seems to have difficulty finding words that make sense.”

“Passive Abilities are much easier,” Treville agreed. Athos rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue. “I’ve approved the request. But you are still in charge of his training. If you feel he’s spending too much time away, come back to me and we’ll reconsider. For now, I will send him on one parade or patrol with the others each week, assuming no other missions interfere.”

“That seems reasonable,” Athos conceded.

“The very first thing he told me was that he wishes to continue working with you. But he tells me he needs to work with others, and in the absence of any other empath or anyone used to working with them, I will trust his judgment on what he needs.”

“He doesn’t always have the clearest sense of his own needs,” Athos muttered, pulling his hat back on.

“Well, that’s something for you to teach him, isn’t it?” Treville looked back at his paperwork. “His first assignment is in three days’ time. Have him come to me this afternoon for the details.”

“Captain,” Athos drawled, letting himself out.

Treville sighed, quietly trying to decide whether Porthos or Aramis would be next up to complain about this. In the meantime, he had paperwork to do and schedules to write.

 

Aramis met d'Artagnan coming into the garrison a little later. He’d agreeably let them buy him drinks for a while the night before, but he begged off eventually. It was late by then and they’d convinced him to stay in what would be his room at the garrison rather than go back to the Bonacieux house.

Aramis took his bag from him. “Did you eat something before you went out?”

“No. I was busy dealing with the hangover you so kindly gave me.”

“Eat something now, then.”

“I need to talk to Athos.”

“Athos is also eating, so that works out.” Aramis wrapped a hand over d'Artagnan’s shoulders, steering him across to the table. “Didn’t you talk to him before you went out?”

“Briefly. And this is new. Partly.”

Athos glanced up as Aramis all but pushed d'Artagnan to sit down. “Morning.”

“Morning,” d'Artagnan muttered, burying his face in his hands.

“Hangover,” Aramis mock whispered above his head.

d'Artagnan straightened, rubbing briefly at his face. “Athos, I need to talk to you.”

“Talk.”

“Jacques Bonacieux is working for the Cardinal.”

Athos glanced at Aramis. “You’re certain of this?”

“Constance is. She…” He shifted slightly. “She drove me away for fear he’d have me killed.”

Aramis grinned broadly; Athos glared, and he sobered, sitting beside him. “Has he hurt her?” Athos asked.

“She says not.” He glanced at Athos. “I believe my patron also works for the Cardinal.”

“He’s getting rather too involved in our doings,” Aramis murmured.

“She stopped me just now,” d'Artagnan continued, still watching Athos. “To congratulate me.”

“Kind of her,” Athos said evenly.

“How long have you known she works for the Cardinal?” Aramis asked.

“Since Comtesse de Larroque’s trial. I told Athos; he suggested staying with her to see if we could find out anything.” Aramis raised an eyebrow, and d'Artagnan added dryly, “My virtue is safe, Aramis. She’s done nothing more than talk at me.”

“And paid your entry to the contest,” Aramis agreed slowly.

d'Artagnan shrugged. “My patroness. She wants me to trust her.”

“What does Jacques Bonacieux have to do with it?”

d'Artagnan shook his head. “He’d been in my room, I think. Some of my things were moved.”

“He won’t do that here,” Athos pointed out. “Eat something. Stay away from the Bonacieux house – away from it, d'Artagnan, am I clear? And if you see your patroness again, continue to play along. Promise her nothing, though.”

“I’ll be careful,” d'Artagnan promised.

“Good. Now, eat. We have training to start.”

d'Artagnan shook his head. “There’s more I need to tell you, Athos. Can we go to my room?”

“Oh look, I should go over here,” Aramis announced loudly, pushing away from the table and wandering away. He stopped just close enough to hear them, fussing with his gloves to try and hide what he was doing.

“My room,” d'Artagnan said quietly. “Please?”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to be angry with me.”

“I see. Bring the meal. You need something to soak up that alcohol.”

Aramis turned to catch Athos’ eye as he stood. Athos shrugged; he didn’t seem to have any idea what was going on either.

Aramis sighed, going to look for Porthos. They should probably be ready to step in. Just in case.

 

All the rooms were empty by now, Musketeers and apprentices down in the yard or out attending to duties. d'Artagnan followed Athos into his room, absently putting his meal on the chest of drawers.

“Well, what is it?” Athos asked, watching him.

d'Artagnan sat on the edge of the bed, because Athos would probably sit too, and d'Artagnan would feel better if Athos wasn’t standing over him. “It’s about Milady.”

Athos had been about to sit on the room’s one chair; now he hesitated, studying d'Artagnan. “What about her?”

“The night we met at the inn.”

“She killed a man and framed you. You’ve told me.”

“No. I mean, yes, but…”

“d'Artagnan,” Athos said patiently. “Whatever it is, say it. We can’t deal with it until you do.”

d'Artagnan nodded, closing his eyes as he said quickly, “When she murdered the Spaniard, she left his room and came to mine.”

Athos stared at him. d'Artagnan badly wanted to stand, to put them back on the same level, but he didn’t dare move.

“Do you always take strange women to your bed?” Athos asked eventually, voice hard and flat. d'Artagnan had already shifted his shields to block him, and he was glad of it now. Athos’ anger always hurt him, even when it wasn’t aimed at him.

“Never before or since,” d'Artagnan told him. “I’ve never so much as touched her since. I had no idea who she was. I didn’t even know her name, not until she told Constance.”

“Milady de Winter is not her name.”

“I know, but I didn’t know anything, Athos. I swear I had no idea who she was.”

“Then why did you sleep with her, d'Artagnan? For heaven’s sake, chasing Constance was one thing. At least you knew who she was. Why would you take a stranger you’d seen with another man to your bed?”

“I was grieving!”

Athos was staring again, a different expression on his face now. d'Artagnan closed his eyes, consciously lowering his voice to something less than a shout.

“I was grieving,” he repeated, when he thought he could say it without screaming. “My father died in my arms in the mud outside some inn I made him stop at. There was nothing in me but grief and guilt and pain. I wanted to _feel_ something. Milady wanted me, I could feel it, and I let it overwhelm me. I pretended it was real. I’m _sorry_.”

Athos turned away, staring out of the window. d'Artagnan waited, running fingers over his beads to try and calm down again. Shouting was not going to help right now.

“You didn’t know who she was,” Athos said finally, still looking out the window.

“No.”

“And now that you do?”

“You asked me to stay close to her,” d'Artagnan reminded him.

Athos nodded slowly. “Yes. Now more than ever I believe I should not have. If Anne ensnared you that early on – she has a plan, d'Artagnan, and her plans never work out well for those around her.”

“I promised to kill the man who scarred her.”

Athos turned back, looking at him, and d'Artagnan continued quickly, “There are scars on her neck from the noose. She told me that the man she loved tried to murder her.”

“And you offered to kill him.”

“I wanted…” d'Artagnan shook his head. “I thought she was a good woman. I wanted her to be a good woman. A good person.”

“I’m familiar with that feeling,” Athos muttered.

“She hasn’t mentioned it since. But she doesn’t know that I know who she is. She’ll call it in some day.”

“Probably. It would appeal to her sense of irony, having your promise to kill me.”

“I won’t do it.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Athos assured him.

d'Artagnan swallowed. “Do you want me to tell the others?”

“I want you _not_ to tell them, for now. Not until we know what her plan is.” Athos held his gaze. “If you think she is dangerous, back away from her, d'Artagnan. Your safety is more important than her plan.”

“It might not be, depending on what her plan is.”

“Your safety is always more important.”

d'Artagnan nodded quickly. “All right.”

“Good. Eat. If we take much longer, Aramis will come looking for us.”

“That or we’ll miss training.”

“An inauspicious start to your first day as a Musketeer,” Athos agreed solemnly. “Eat, d'Artagnan. Anne’s not making her move today. We have time.”


	11. Knight Takes Queen

Athos sent Porthos and Aramis to get some rest on the second night of their vigil. Glancing around, he made his way across the clearing to a tree growing precariously over the edge of the cliff. d'Artagnan was perched in the branches, one foot swinging idly over the drop below. "You should come down from there before it gets too dark."

d'Artagnan hummed in response, and Athos squinted up at him. "d'Artagnan, are you with me?"

They'd pushed him hard over the last couple of days; making him fight two or three of them while keeping his senses as wide open as possible, giving him random objects to Read, having him Read one of them while blocking the others out. All of it in an effort to find his limits and sharpen his control while they were relatively safe here, rather than find a limit in battle where it might be dangerous. d'Artagnan had co-operated completely – he knew the risks – but they'd all watched as he found it more and more difficult to do what he was asked.

"d'Artagnan."

"I'm with you." His voice had a tone Athos was more used to hearing in Aramis after a difficult healing; exhaustion so total it went beyond bodily tiredness. When Aramis got to this point he needed food, rest, and the touch of someone he trusted – someone without injury – but Athos didn't know yet what d'Artagnan needed to recover. He seemed to favour solitude, but he couldn’t have that right now and Athos didn’t know what else to offer.

"Come down," he said. d'Artagnan obeyed, and Athos noted absently that his mental exhaustion didn't seem to impact on his physical abilities – or, at least, not yet. "If our training is going to leave you like this, you need to start saying _no_ earlier."

"We need to know these things."

"Not at the cost of your health, we don't."

d'Artagnan shrugged, glancing back over the cliff. "What do you suppose the punishment would be?"

"For what?"

"If I went swimming."

Athos followed his gaze. "You feel the need to increase your fertility?"

"I like to swim."

"Really?" Athos could swim, there was a swimming hole on the la Fere property, but it wasn't something he particularly enjoyed.

"Water carries no traces." d'Artagnan traced a shape that presumably meant something in the air between them. "If I'm far enough from people...it's the closest I ever get to silence."

If d'Artagnan was even a little more aware, he'd never have allowed that plaintive tone to enter his voice. "How far?"

"Depends on the person. A long way for you three."

Athos nodded slowly. "You can't go now; the others are sleeping. Tomorrow, we'll go around the lake, you and I. I'm _not_ letting you go alone," he added when d'Artagnan started to protest.

"You don't have to come. I can manage."

"Can you sleep now?" Athos continued as though he hadn't heard. "What do you need?"

"Just quiet." d'Artagnan glanced at him. "Don't worry so much, Athos. This happens when I push, but it's much easier out here than it would be in Paris."

"When we get back, we'll talk to Treville about making sure you have regular missions out of the city. Don't argue about that, either; he's used to scheduling around Abilities."

d'Artagnan eased down to sit by the fire, unwinding his rosary beads. "Does the Queen know? About the regiment?"

"The King thinks she doesn't. If she does, she has never shown it. Not by word, by look, by implication." Athos watched him for a minute. "What do you need, d'Artagnan?"

d'Artagnan looked up from the beads. "What do I – nothing. I'll pray, for a bit, and then I'll be able to sleep, and by tomorrow I'll be fine. I don't _need_ the swim, but it'll help a little."

"You'll get your swim. Aramis can watch the Queen for a while, I'm sure he won't object." d'Artagnan started to answer and Athos shook his head. "We can talk about it tomorrow. Get some rest now; that's an order."

"What do you need?" d'Artagnan asked. Proper tiredness was starting to take over now, and Athos thought he'd sleep before too long.

"What do I need when?"

"When you try too hard."

Athos shook his head. "Passive Ability; it doesn't tire me the way it does you and Aramis. Porthos, if he pushes he suffers headaches, but he can't push hard enough to wear himself out the way you do, it just doesn't work." d'Artagnan was nodding, slowly, drifting off where he sat. Athos kept talking softly, moving off the topic of Abilities and onto training they might try over the next few days, and within a few minutes d'Artagnan was asleep.

He waited a few minutes longer, long enough to be sure d'Artagnan was really asleep, before moving to lay him down properly. Porthos rolled towards them, watching for a moment. "Need help?"

"No. Thank you."

"Want me to stay up with you?"

"There's no point, I'm not waking him to take yours. One of us will still watch alone, and we're less likely to be attacked this early." Glancing across at Porthos, he added "I spoke briefly of your Ability."

"I heard you," Porthos agreed. "No harm done. We really do need to all sit down and tell him everything one of these days anyway."

"When we have some free time," Athos agreed dryly.

"After this mission," Porthos said firmly. "It's dangerous to let it go."

d'Artagnan shifted, looking hazily at them. "Ws wrng?"

"Nothing," Athos told him. "Go back to sleep."

d'Artagnan reached out, tangling sleep-heavy fingers in his sleeve. "Yr noyyed."

"I'm fine," Athos promised. "Sleep, d'Artagnan."

When he'd stilled again Porthos glanced at Athos. "You woke him."

"Yes," Athos agreed. "Go to sleep, before you irritate me into waking him again."

"He shouldn't be sensing us while he's asleep."

"Porthos..."

Porthos rolled over, settling back down. Athos glanced down at d'Artagnan. He was still holding onto his sleeve, even in sleep.

Well, Athos could keep watch just as effectively from here. And d'Artagnan needed the sleep. He settled in to keep his watch.

 

d'Artagnan woke briefly when the watch changed over, but Athos talked him back to sleep within a couple of minutes. It wasn’t until he woke properly the next morning that he realised he’d slept through his watch.

“It doesn’t matter,” Athos said when he tried to apologise.

“You should have woken me.”

“If you want to make it up, come and walk around the lake with me. I want to look at the terrain on the other side.”

d'Artagnan blinked, studying him. “All right.”

“Good. And I want you to refrain from using your Ability today, as much as you can. There will be times, like LaBarge, when you need to function without it.”

“I _can_ manage without it, you know. I spent days with Vadim, and in the Chatelet. I had to shield in there.”

He was trying not to Read them, obedient to Athos’ orders, but the rush of guilt took him by surprise. Frowning, he looked at Aramis. “What?”

“We sent you into the Chatelet,” Aramis said tightly. “An empath, in that place.”

“I sent myself into the Chatelet. You gave me plenty of chances to refuse.” Aramis didn’t answer, and the guilt wasn’t fading. d'Artagnan grimaced. “The Chatelet was bad,” he admitted. “You saw me afterwards. But I got through it. I had chances to refuse, to pull out, and I didn’t. It was my choice.”

“Would you have refused?” Athos asked. “If you’d known?”

d'Artagnan shrugged. “Maybe. But I did it. I could do it again if I had to.” Directly to Aramis, he added, “You didn’t know, and you helped me afterwards.”

The guilt was easing a little. He nodded in satisfaction, glancing at Athos. “Are we going?”

“Yes.” Athos rose, pulling on his hat. “We may be a while,” he told Porthos.

“We can manage without you.”

“You know what they say about pride, Porthos,” d'Artagnan pointed out, skipping out of his way with a grin.

They went some distance around the lake before climbing down to the shore. Athos was watching the tent; he stopped when it was out of sight. “Here?”

d'Artagnan shook his head. “Too close.”

“We’ll have to test your distances,” Athos murmured.

“I told you. It depends on the person.”

“That doesn’t really help me, d'Artagnan.”

d'Artagnan studied the lake for a moment. “We won’t get far enough away for me to lose Aramis and Porthos. I can hold you three at greater distances than that. I’ll probably lose the queen. I’ll definitely lose her ladies.”

“And if you shield?”

“I can shield tightly enough to lose them. I can shield tightly enough to lose you, if you want me to.”

He kept saying _lose_. He was giving too much away, and he knew it.

Athos shook his head. “Can you keep us and shield against anything else?”

d'Artagnan squirmed. “Not them, we’re too far for that now.”

“You can keep me, if it helps.”

“Thank you.” He paused, looking out across the lake. Athos followed his gaze; they were in a small fold of the cliff, hidden from the others’ view.

“Here?”

“Here.”

Athos wandered around the tiny beach as d'Artagnan stripped off, wading into the water. It was cool, not cold, and he waded until he couldn’t touch the bottom any more, and then he floated. Athos’ presence lessened until he was barely aware of him, and everything around him was silent.

He floated for a long time, soaking in the silence. Eventually he realised Athos was calling him; he headed back in to shore, sitting down almost at once.

“d'Artagnan.” Athos crouched beside him, studying him.

“No, it’s good.” d'Artagnan smiled vaguely. “I need a minute.” He still felt as though he was floating, only loosely connected to his body.

Athos watched until he nodded, sitting up straighter. “Thank you. I didn’t realise how much I needed that.”

“Better?”

“Much.”

“Good. Get dressed; the others will be looking for us.”

 

Aramis glanced up as Athos and d'Artagnan returned. Athos paused to talk to Porthos, looking down towards the camp; d'Artagnan stepped around them, dropping to sit next to him. "Aramis!"

"d'Artagnan!" Aramis returned, studying him. If he didn't know better, he'd say d'Artagnan was drugged; all loose limbs and beaming smiles, he looked younger than ever. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan assured him.

"Yes, you seem fine. Athos?"

Athos glanced over at them. "He took a swim."

"A swim," Aramis repeated.

"It's quiet in the water," d'Artagnan explained.

Aramis took off his glove, holding up his hand; d'Artagnan submitted to the touch, letting Aramis check him over. The normal shields were there, and something strange behind them. It took Aramis a moment to figure it out.

d'Artagnan's mind was quiet.

Aramis couldn't read thoughts. He couldn't even read feelings. But he could sense the activity in a mind, whether someone was calm or at odds with themselves, worried or relaxed. d'Artagnan, like every other empath he'd ever touched, always had noise and movement within his mind, the result of constantly having to stay in control or be overwhelmed. Right now, though, there was no sound and no motion beyond d'Artagnan's own thoughts, and even they were quieter and slower than usual.

He pulled back with a smile, letting his hand rest on d'Artagnan's arm. "So this is what you're like when you relax."

"Surprise," d'Artagnan said with a grin.

"Teach this one how to relax, will you?" Porthos asked, coming to join them. d'Artagnan shifted and Aramis let go, watching him pull himself a few feet away. "He's been agitating since you left."

"I'm bored," Aramis said defensively.

"I thought this was paradise," Athos reminded him.

"That was three days ago. I miss Paris."

"We'll be back soon enough," Porthos reminded him. "Why not enjoy this while you can?"

"Bored, bored, bored," Aramis muttered. He was being unfair, and he knew it, but really, how much good could repeated swims do? Surely if the water was going to help, it would have already?

There was a shot, and a cry from below, and the Musketeers rolled to their feet – d'Artagnan included, Aramis was glad to see, though he was sorry to see the relaxation drop away. "The Queen!" Athos shouted, scrambling towards the body below.

"It's not her!" d'Artagnan called, and Athos waved acknowledgment, continuing down anyway, ducking as a shot ricocheted off the rocks nearby.

"You got anything?" Porthos asked d'Artagnan, scanning the cliffs opposite.

"There." d'Artagnan pointed and immediately had to duck, dirt kicking up a couple of feet in front of him. "You see him?" he finished breathlessly.

"He alone?"

"Not sure yet!"

Athos pushed the Queen into Porthos' arms and he rolled on top of her to protect her. "Sorry," he said absently.

"How many?" Athos asked, crouching between d'Artagnan and Aramis.

"One over there –“ d'Artagnan ducked again as a shot went over his head. "I can't tell if he's alone."

"Not alone just makes it more fun," Aramis said brightly.

One more shot, and d'Artagnan relaxed. "He's out."

"Porthos, you and d'Artagnan take her majesty, get to the horses. We'll catch up with you."

Porthos nodded, scrambling to his feet and hauling the queen up the slope with another apology. d'Artagnan caught Athos' arm, hauling himself to his feet. "Send the ladies back through the woods. He won't touch them, he doesn't care about them. Just make sure they know to hide if they hear anyone coming."

Athos nodded. "Be careful what you say, d'Artagnan. The Queen is not stupid, she will pick up on any mistakes you make."

"I know. Good luck." He turned to scramble up the slope after Porthos.

Athos turned to Aramis, who shrugged. "Let's go, then."

 

Athos stared out the window, concentrating intently on looking for the attackers and not on anything he may or may not have seen in the Queen’s room. He couldn’t deal with that right now on top of everything else.

“I still can’t see what they’re building,” he said as Aramis appeared. “They could be digging.”

“About what you saw…”

“I didn’t see anything, because I’ve been in here all morning, so I couldn’t possibly have seen anything.”

Aramis nodded sharply. “These walls are too thick, they know the garrison would be on them before they –“

“I cannot believe you slept with the Queen!”

Aramis flinched. “I thought you didn’t see anything.”

“They’ll hang you. And then they’ll hang me for letting it happen.”

“I didn’t – intend it to happen.”

“You never intend anything.” Athos hesitated, studying him. “Aramis, are you – did the Queen try and force –“

“No. Not that.” He held up one ungloved hand, studying it. “She is – injured, inside. Something she’s had for years, maybe all her life. It’s why she doesn’t conceive, why she miscarried six years ago.”

Athos closed his eyes briefly. “She touched you.”

“I couldn’t.” Aramis sounded broken. “She was in pain. I couldn’t, once I knew – _Athos_.”

“I know,” Athos muttered. He’d seen it happen, before, Aramis trying to keep himself from helping someone he knew to be hurting. It never ended well. “Did you have to actually sleep with her?”

“I didn’t think she’d be willing to sit still with my hand on her stomach for half an hour or so.”

Athos scowled. “Have you eaten?” Half an hour was a major healing, enough to wipe Aramis out if he wasn’t careful.

“And slept, yes. I’m quite recovered.”

“And will she…”

“I don’t know.” Aramis scrubbed his face with both hands. “She has a chance, now.”

“And she doesn’t know.”

“Of course she doesn’t know. I’m not that big a fool.”

“No, committing treason by sleeping with her is much better than committing treason by using an Ability on her.” Athos sighed.

“I’ll make sure you’re not blamed, if it comes to it.”

“If it comes to it the Cardinal will have us both dead before you can do anything.”

“Well, fortunately we’ll probably die here instead.”

“How lucky we are.”

“I should…” Aramis gestured loosely. Athos nodded, watching him leave.

The Mother Superior appeared a little later, coming to join him at the window. “This is my convent,” she told him. “And I’m going to defend it. So if there’s anything… _more_ …I can do to defend it…”

She looked away, and Athos followed her gaze, frowning. A candelabra sat against one wall, lit although it was daylight. The flames were flickering oddly.

Athos glanced at Mother Superior and back at the candles. No doubt at all; the flames were extending, dancing around each other. _That_ explained some oddities he'd noticed in the nuns’ alcohol bombs.

“Why don’t we hold that in reserve,” he said carefully. “Can you load a pistol?”

She took the pistol, loading it neatly and quickly. “Blessed be the Lord my God, who teaches my hands to fight and my fingers to battle. Psalms 144.”

“You load, I’ll fire.”

“Simplicity. The essence of any good plan.”

And like any good plan, it didn’t last long. Leaning precariously out of the window, he could see the attackers making their way in through a tunnel. Gesturing the Mother Superior to follow him, he crossed into Aramis’ room to warn him.

Mother Superior led them down into the cellars. Gallagher’s men were already inside, and they started the final battle.

 

d'Artagnan ignored it for as long as he could. When they finally left the Louvre, Queen Anne returned safely home and the Cardinal warned that they knew, he stopped in the middle of the street.

Aramis halted behind him, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“Captain, can we catch you up?” d'Artagnan asked. Aramis frowned, glancing at Porthos and Athos, but none of them protested.

Treville frowned, but he nodded. “Don’t be long.”

“No, sir.”

Athos watched him leave, frowning as he turned to d'Artagnan. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry,” d'Artagnan apologised. “I’ve been ignoring this, but you’re killing me, you two. What on earth happened to make you –“ He looked at Aramis. “So guilty, and you –“ To Athos. “So angry?”

“We’ve talked about that,” Aramis reminded him. “Intrusive.”

“I know! I’m trying! I can’t hear anything else over you two. “

“This isn’t what I thought we were going to talk about,” Athos murmured.

“I’m getting to that,” d'Artagnan promised. “This first.”

Aramis looked at Athos, who shook his head. “Aramis and I have dealt with it.”

“No you haven’t!”

“We’re dealing with it,” he amended. “Try and ignore it. We _are_ dealing with it.”

d'Artagnan eyed them for a moment before sighing, looking away. Athos meant it, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. “Deal with it quickly.”

Aramis moved to pat his shoulder and then hesitated, lowering his hand. “My apologies.”

d'Artagnan grimaced. “I’m not trying – I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how to feel. About anything.”

Aramis did pat him this time. “We’ll find you a lake to go swim in,” he offered.

d'Artagnan snorted, pushing him away. “Dark emotions, Aramis.”

“I remember. I’m sorry if we’re hurting you.”

“It’s not your fault; it is what it is.”

“Still. You couldn’t pay me to be an empath. All Abilities have downsides, but yours is all down and no up.”

d’Artagnan caught Athos’ grimace from the corner of his eye. “I manage well enough. What do you mean, they all have downsides?”

“A discussion for another time, gentlemen,” Athos said. Aramis started to protest, and Athos shook his head firmly. "This is not the time for that particular debate. Some other time, you can attempt to sway d'Artagnan to your point of view." Aramis subsided, and Athos nodded. “Good. Treville awaits. Let’s go.”

d’Artagnan turned to look at Athos. “The other thing.”

“Treville needs to know, too.”

“Know what?” Aramis asked, looking from d'Artagnan to Athos and back.

Athos shook his head. “Let’s get back to Treville’s office.” He waved the other two on, holding d'Artagnan back. “This is likely to be a difficult conversation,” he murmured. “If you are already having difficulty…”

“I’m not _having difficulty_. It’s you two shouting in my head. I’ll block it out for now, it’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“You need me there; there’s something you don’t know yet.”

Athos sighed, nodding. “If you need to, leave.”

“I will. Athos?” He glanced after the other two, waiting patiently for them further down the street. “Whatever it was? He’s angry at himself for it, and he’s guilty about it, and he’s worried because you’re angry about it. It’s hurting him.”

“It should hurt him,” Athos said, and looked away when d'Artagnan flinched. “Dealing with it,” he said on a sigh.

“Thank you,” d'Artagnan murmured, turning to follow the others.

Treville had been waiting for them, waving them all in without ceremony. “I hope you enjoyed your little break,” he said sharply, studying them all.

“My fault, I’m sorry,” d'Artagnan offered, leaning against a wall.

“Well, if you’re sorry, that makes up for everything.”

“Captain,” Athos said with a grimace. “There are – things you need to know. All of you,” he added towards Porthos and Aramis.

d'Artagnan kept his eyes on Athos as he carefully related the story of his marriage. He told it as though he was giving a report, calm and concise, watching Treville though he was clearly aware of the other two all the time. d'Artagnan was quietly glad he was shielding; just from watching, he could tell the emotions in the room would be overwhelming if he could sense them.

Neither Porthos nor Aramis spoke until Athos was clearly finished; then Porthos cleared his throat, taking half a step forward. “So, just to make sure I’ve got this right,” he said carefully. “Your ex-wife, who you ordered hanged for murder, is alive, in Paris, and working for the Cardinal as…”

“Assassin, spy, whatever he needs,” Athos agreed.

“We have to work on your taste in women, my friend,” Aramis murmured.

“I thought she had died until a few months ago,” Athos said quietly. “She was the great shame of my life, and I thought it behind me. That is why I never spoke of it.”

Porthos shrugged uncomfortably. “We’ve all got things, right?”

d'Artagnan stirred, still leaning against the wall. “There’s more.”

“Isn’t there always,” Aramis said with a sigh.

d'Artagnan glanced at Athos, who waved for him to go ahead. “My first night in Paris,” he said carefully, “I met a woman. She murdered a man and framed me for it. And then, later, she saved my life, and later still she provided me with money. To enter the contest.”

He could see the moment Porthos realised. “Your patroness,” he said. “You told us she worked for the Cardinal. How long have you known who she is?”

“Since la Fere,” d'Artagnan admitted. “She tried to kill Athos, and I felt enough to recognise her as the woman from the inn. She came to be my patron after that.”

Aramis glanced at Athos. “And you’ve known she’s alive…”

“Since la Fere,” Athos told him. “You’ve seen her; Madame de la Chappelle. She testified at Comtesse de Larroque’s trial.”

Aramis mouthed ‘ah’, leaning back against the desk. “A beautiful woman.”

“Yes,” Athos murmured softly. “Yes, she always was.”

Treville cleared his throat loudly. “So this woman works for the Cardinal,” he said, focusing on the papers on his desk rather than looking at them. “I assume you have some plan.”

“I do,” d'Artagnan said when Athos didn’t speak.

Treville looked up, eyes narrowed. “Do tell.”

d'Artagnan shrugged, smiling easily. “I betray you.”


	12. Musketeers Don't Die Easily, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some explanation of the four main Abilities this week! Hope it answers some questions!

"I don't like this."

"So you keep saying," d'Artagnan agreed, more focused on his cup than on the conversation. "I can do this, Athos."

"I have no doubts about you. My reservations are entirely about her. I still think I should be the one to go to her."

"No," d'Artagnan said sharply, looking up. "You don't get any closer to her than you have to."

Athos frowned. That had been rather more vehement than he'd been expecting, and now the others were watching as well. "Why not? Do you think she would kill me? She won't."

d'Artagnan looked oddly at him. "I'm not worried about her killing you, I'm worried about her _turning_ you – Porthos!"

Porthos rammed him into the nearest wall, pinning him there. "You think Athos would turn on us for her?"

"Not deliberately – Athos, tell him!"

"Tell him what?" Athos asked calmly. Porthos wasn't in any danger of hurting him.

"About your wife! About her Ability."

Athos went very still. "Anne has no Ability."

d'Artagnan looked ill, and Porthos had gone from pinning him in place to supporting him. "Oh, god."

"She has no Ability," Athos said again, more loudly.

"She does. Athos, she does. I'm sorry, it never occurred to me that you didn't – I'm _sorry_."

"What Ability?" Aramis asked from the side lines.

d'Artagnan's eyes flickered to him and back to Athos. "She's a broadcast empath. She can make you feel whatever she wants. That's why you didn't watch her die five years ago. It's why you didn't fight back when she hurt you at la Fere. It's what makes her so useful to the Cardinal." He pushed lightly against Porthos, who let him go, watching warily. "Athos, I'm sorry."

Athos shook his head – certainly this was not d'Artagnan's fault – but he didn't dare answer out loud.

Aramis was suddenly in front of him, holding his gaze. "She cannot make you feel anything that isn't in you to feel," he said firmly. "You didn't wish to see her die; that is not a failing, Athos."

"I thought I loved her," Athos said softly.

"You did love her. That didn't come from nowhere."

Athos drew in a breath, turning to look at the others. d'Artagnan looked like he was bracing himself to be struck, and Athos grimaced. "My wife's Ability is hardly your fault, d'Artagnan."

"I should have said something."

"I did not encourage you to speak of her at all. You think I shouldn't face her?"

d'Artagnan frowned, visibly moving to the new topic. "Not if you can help it. Aramis might be able to block her for a time, I don't know, but she'd know."

"She'll know if you block her too," Aramis pointed out. His hand was warm on Athos' arm; Athos couldn't remember when that had happened.

"I'll know what she's trying to make me feel," d'Artagnan told them. "I can play along."

"What about me?" Porthos asked.

d'Artagnan hesitated. "I don't know what your Ability is."

Aramis cleared his throat; d'Artagnan glanced over at them and he shook his head apologetically. d'Artagnan looked back, frowned, and shook his head.

"What's wrong?" Aramis asked politely.

"I don't remember what I was saying." d'Artagnan pressed a hand against his forehead.

Aramis shot a glance at Athos. "You were trying to decide if Porthos would be safe against Madame de la Chapelle."

"Was I? I'm not... _gah_." He bent double, both hands fisted in his hair. "Porthos!"

"Sorry," Porthos murmured, easing him towards the seat. "Takes Aramis like that if he's touching me, too. I'll be careful in future."

"Breathe," Aramis added. "It'll pass in a moment. Your senses got confused."

d'Artagnan lifted his head, scowling. "What was that?"

"Fading," Porthos told him. "Makes you not notice me."

"You weren't here!"

"I was here. I never moved. You just – didn't notice. Looked past me. I didn't register. Useful little trick, but it does upset empaths, telepaths. Most of the Active Mentals, I guess."

"It does," d'Artagnan agreed, finally relaxing. "I could sense you, and you weren't there. I couldn't figure it out."

Porthos nodded. "I was in battle once, tried to Fade so I could get closer to their leader. Didn't realise Aramis had a hand on me. Near made him throw up, it confused him so much."

"Confused, yes, that's it," d'Artagnan agreed.

"Well, can I get near Milady or not?"

"How long can you hold that for?"

"Against you, not very long. Against someone doesn't know what they're looking for? I've done a day, before."

"Milady only broadcasts, she doesn't receive," d'Artagnan said thoughtfully. "At least, only enough to know how to manipulate someone. If she didn't know you were there, at all..."

"You'll have to shield against him the whole time, though," Athos pointed out. "Can you do that and still track what she's doing?"

"Yes, I know him well enough now, that won't be a problem."

"Right. I'll be nearby as much as I can, then," Porthos promised.

"Can you move around while you're Fading?" d'Artagnan asked curiously. "What if you pick up a cup or a plate, or open a door?"

"I could lift your own dagger and kill you with it, you wouldn't notice anything in time. Don't worry about that."

"I've seen him do that, it's quite remarkable," Aramis offered. “Well, sort of seen him do it. I’ve seen the results.”

"No wonder you were such a good thief. You and Flea." d'Artagnan glanced at Aramis. “Aramis, if we do this – the Cardinal knows you have an Ability. If you take part in this, he might decide to use that knowledge.”

“He knows you know I have an Ability,” Aramis reminded him. “You’re in as much danger as I.”

“It doesn’t matter, I have to do this. I’m the only one who can. You don’t have to have any part in it.”

“As long as I’m in Paris, the Cardinal will not believe I had no part in this. And we don’t go on missions alone. If we do this, I am part of it, and we’ll deal with the Cardinal when it happens.”

"We seem to have decided that this is the best plan," Athos murmured.

"It is the best plan," d'Artagnan agreed. "This way we can stop her and the Cardinal both. If you think you can."

Athos hesitated for a long moment, but there was really only one answer he could give if these men were willing. "I can."

 

Aramis was cleaning his pistol for the third time when d'Artagnan gave up. “Enough. What’s bothering you?” Aramis looked at him, and he grimaced. “What, specifically, is bothering you?”

“I hate this plan.”

“We all hate this plan. I hate it, and it’s my plan. Just remember not to touch me.” He glanced at him. “Will that be enough, not touching me?”

“It’s enough.” Aramis sighed. “You’ve been building your shields on us for a while.”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan agreed. “Something that can’t be taken from me.”

“Will that work now?”

“Porthos will be nearby. And as long as I don’t leave Paris, you’ll be close enough. I can find you.”

“Over all the other noise?”

“If I have to.” He caught Aramis’ look and sighed, thinking for a moment. Explaining this was never easy, but Aramis should have more idea than most. “Imagine meeting someone who speaks with a thick accent,” he said finally.

“All right,” Aramis agreed, intrigued.

“At first, you have to try to work out what they’re saying.” d'Artagnan looked away, gaze drifting over the far wall. “It doesn’t sound like anything; it’s just noise. Maybe there’s words here and there you can pick out…It gets easier. You learn how they phrase things, what different words sound like coming from them. After a while, you don’t need to try. You just understand when they talk. And if they called you, even in a crowded room, you’d hear them. Because you know them.”

Aramis laid a gloved hand on his arm. d'Artagnan let it ground him, drawing him back.

When he finally met Aramis’ eyes, Aramis smiled. “It isn’t anything like that, is it.”

“No, it isn’t, because it isn’t noise. It isn’t sound. It’s not sight or touch or taste. It isn’t anything like anything. But that’s a way to say it that you can understand. You must understand this. What’s it like to heal someone?”

“It’s not like anything,” Aramis agreed.

d'Artagnan glanced towards the street; Athos was moving. “It won’t be long – what is it like?”

Aramis shrugged. “The body has an energy. Injury or illness disrupts that energy. When my skin touches someone else’s, I can read their energy, see where it’s disrupted and how to fix it. Injury more easily than illness, I’ll admit, but both are possible.”

“And it tires you.”

“I use my own energy to make the repairs. That’s why I must be careful who I touch. I nearly killed myself at Savoy, trying to save men who were far beyond help.”

Clearing his throat, he added, “Food and sleep restores me. The bigger the healing, the more food and rest. I may sleep a long time, but I will always wake. What do you know about Athos’ Ability?”

“Very little. It’s some kind of passive healing. I saw it at la Fere.”

“You had a busy night at la Fere,” Aramis mused. “Athos needs only sleep to recover from injury or illness.”

“Any injury?”

“We’ve yet to find an injury he can’t overcome. It’s not something we’ve experimented with, you understand.”

“Mmm.” d'Artagnan glanced towards the street again. That spike of fear was Anne, which meant they’d be moving any minute. “So when we met, the firing squad…”

“We try not to let him put himself in life threatening situations. Certainly not with witnesses around.”

“Try not to?” d'Artagnan repeated, enjoying the sense of amusement.

“Well, sometimes he makes it harder than others.”

Porthos appeared in the gateway, shouting about Athos taking a woman hostage. Aramis glanced up to make sure Treville had heard, clapped d'Artagnan on the shoulder, and hurried out. d'Artagnan followed, aware of Porthos behind him and Treville shouting orders to keep the other Musketeers from following.

Most of the conversation blurred in his mind. Anne was trying to push _protective_ and _lust_ and _wanting_ at him, and he played along, trying to persuade Athos to let her go. The others ‘discovered’ his relationship and were suitably outraged, and when Treville appeared d'Artagnan took the opportunity and grabbed Athos’ pistol.

It went off.

Athos’ horror hit d'Artagnan just before the pain. The aim had been off; the bullet intended for his arm had hit his side instead. Treville caught him as he crumpled, Porthos warding off Athos, Aramis doing his best to look like he was helping without touching d'Artagnan.

Porthos came back, hunkering in front of d'Artagnan, tapping his face. “Hey. Stay with us. Open your eyes, d'Artagnan.”

d'Artagnan focused on Porthos long enough to weave his shields using Porthos as the base; then he drifted into unconsciousness.

 

Porthos stayed Faded, watching as Milady's surgeon left, as she studied d'Artagnan, lips pinched together, before leaving. The room was elegant and well put together but not well used. Whatever this building was, it hadn't been occupied for a while.

d'Artagnan slept well into the next day, and when he woke it was in slow stages. Porthos waited patiently. In the Fade, he didn't dare speak or try and touch d'Artagnan; it would upset him badly, and he didn't need that on top of the injury.

Eventually d'Artagnan woke properly; he lay without moving for a moment. “Porthos,” he murmured, eyes closed. “I need to see you for a minute.”

Porthos slipped back into solidity, reaching down to touch his hand lightly, and d'Artagnan dragged his eyes open. “Morning,” Porthos murmured.

“Is it?”

“Bells rang nine a while ago. How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got shot. Where are we?”

Porthos glanced around. “Milady’s house. Or a house she owns, anyway. She shouted until they let her take you away last night.”

d'Artagnan reached out to brace himself on Porthos, hauling himself into a sitting position and stifling a groan. “How am I?”

“Bounced off your ribs, bruised a couple of them. Milady got you a surgeon. You’ll be fine. Sore for a bit, that’s all.” 

d'Artagnan touched his ribs warily. “Good.” Glancing up, he added, “Milady’s coming.”

“You right?”

“Yes. Go.”

d'Artagnan carefully looked away, reaching for his shirt and pulling it on with a wince. Porthos slid into the Fade, watching as Milady approached from behind. He didn't see the pistol until it was already pressed to d'Artagnan's head; he froze, but he didn't seem afraid, and Porthos didn't interfere.

“I could blow your brains out now and never think of you again,” she said conversationally.

“I’m guessing you didn’t bring me here just to shoot me.”

“The question is, can I trust you?”

“I saved your life,” he pointed out.

There was a long moment before she pulled the pistol back slightly, lowering it. d'Artagnan lowered his head, fussing with his sleeves to avoid her gaze.

She paced around him, waiting until he met her eyes. “The shot grazed your ribs. A few inches to the right and Athos would have killed you.”

“It was an accident,” d'Artagnan said instinctively. 

“Was it?”

" _Yes_."

"You saw the look on his face when he found out about us. He hated you. They all did, all your so-called friends. They left you to bleed to death in the square."

d'Artagnan looked away, fussing with the shirt again, and Porthos cursed silently. Either the boy was a far better actor than they'd thought, or Milady was getting to him.

He kept listening as Milady tried to get d'Artagnan to join her, serving the Cardinal. d'Artagnan refused outright, going so far as to walk away to sit down. She kept pressing, using her body now; Porthos looked away, but he caught enough to know d'Artagnan had backed up, breaking contact with her.

"Last time I was in your bed," he said carefully, "you murdered a man and blamed me for it."

"I promise I haven't killed anyone yet. Today." 

She was all but in his lap, holding him in place. d'Artagnan met her gaze for a moment, and he looked like he was considering it.

"Tell me what really happened between you and Athos."

She studied him for a long moment before stepping aside, sitting carefully beside him. Porthos listened as she described a poor upbringing, and it sounded possible to him. She didn't speak like any of the poor he knew, but that could be hidden.

"His brother Thomas was mad with desire for me," she said, watching d'Artagnan. “He tried to force me."

d'Artagnan looked away, and Porthos grimaced. She knew every button to push, obviously.

"I had no choice. I killed him, but I did it for love. Athos was blind to the truth; because I was a thief, I must also be a murderer. _This_ is what he did for his honour, and status."

She pulled her choker loose; the scar was clear, and d'Artagnan couldn't look away from it.

"You once said you would kill the man who did this to me."

d'Artagnan blinked, taken aback. Porthos was surprised; he hadn't mentioned that part of the story.

"You want me to kill Athos."

"You don't know him like I do! He will never forgive you."

"I won't _murder_ my best friend."

Milady frowned, clearly surprised. She must have expected d'Artagnan to be so caught up in her spell by now that he'd agree without hesitation.

She started to speak, but there was a loud knock at the door. Porthos glanced up, moving carefully out of her way as she picked up the pistol before going to answer it.

"Madame," Treville said politely. "I've come to see d'Artagnan."

Porthos glanced at d'Artagnan. He wasn't wearing his beads, hadn't wanted to risk them, but his lips were moving in the way they'd learnt meant he was re-centring himself.

“This won’t take long,” Treville promised. Milady stepped aside to let him in.

d'Artagnan looked away. “What do you want, _captain_?”

Treville cleared his throat. “Athos has made it clear he can never serve at your side again. I cannot allow such dissent within the ranks. I’m sorry, but your future lies elsewhere.”

“What?” d'Artagnan breathed.

“Resign your commission quickly and I’ll see no disgrace is attached to your name.”

“No!” d'Artagnan surged to his feet. “I don’t deserve this! What have I done wrong?”

“I haven’t come here to judge you,” Treville said placidly. “I simply have to make a choice. Athos is the finest soldier in the regiment; I choose him. There’s nothing more to be said.” He bowed slightly, pulling his hat back on as he left.

d'Artagnan stared straight ahead for a long moment. Milady closed the door, coming back to watch him.

“You were right about him,” he said after a moment. “I should have listened. Be in the town square at midday. You’ll get what you want.”

 

d'Artagnan kept walking until he was out of sight of Milady's house; then he stopped dead. "Porthos?"

"Here," Porthos touched his shoulder from behind. "You all right?"

"That was – she's a lot stronger than I thought she was." He pressed one hand to his forehead, drinking in the familiar feel of _Porthos_ , letting it steady him. "I suppose she wasn't really trying, before."

"You surprised her, when you said you wouldn't kill him."

"Mmm. She thought she had me."

Porthos watched him for a moment. "You know it was rot, all that stuff she was saying. About us hating you, leaving you there. You know we'd never do that, not ever."

"I know. It was the plan."

"Aramis nearly had to clock Athos one to get him to leave, even with the plan. When he knew his aim was off..."

"That was partly my fault, I grabbed the barrel."

"And the Captain, he'd never throw you out, neither."

"I know," d'Artagnan agreed, but he couldn't hide the relief he felt at the words, even so. Even knowing exactly how the others felt, listening to the words had hurt, and Milady hadn't helped either. She knew exactly how best to hurt him. "Where are we?"

"Near the Louvre. Garrison's not far off. Why?"

He looked around, getting his bearings. "Rue Plummet's not far from here. And you need to be back in the garrison before I get there."

"You all right on your own?"

"Yes, I'm fine now. But I need some time if I'm going back to her, especially if I have to kill Athos in between."

"Yeah, I was wondering about that," Porthos agreed. "How're you going to get him to agree?"

d'Artagnan grimaced. "I'm still working on that. Don't tell him; let me work it out first."

"Right. Don't take too long, or we'll be after you, got it?"

"Got it," d'Artagnan promised. "I'll see you in a while."

The priests knew him by sight, by now, knew to keep away unless he came looking for one of them. d'Artagnan genuflected, threw a couple of coins into the collection plate, and found a pew in one of the side chapels. There were only a handful of people in the main body of the church, and he was familiar enough with the building now that he could focus on it and not them.

He sat for a while, praying silently, letting the words draw him back into himself, and then he rose and headed for the garrison, concentrating. The rest of the regiment still thought he’d fought with Athos, so he needed to be angry, impetuous, enough to get himself called into Treville’s office.

That shouldn’t be too hard.

Porthos and Aramis were sitting on the table in the courtyard, talking quietly; Porthos glanced up as d'Artagnan came in, pushing to his feet. “Where’ve you been?”

“In bed,” d'Artagnan snapped. “Injured.”

“You weren’t alone, I think,” Aramis said mock-wisely. “How is Madame de la Chapelle? Or is it Milady de Winter? I lose track.”

d'Artagnan rolled his eyes. Aramis was enjoying this just a little too much. “She was well last time I saw her, no thanks to her loving husband.”

Athos took the hint, stepping out of the stables. “I see you’ve risen from the dead.”

“You failed to kill me, if that’s what you’re referring to.”

Fierce joy swept through Athos and was gone. d'Artagnan blinked, looking down to hide it.

Treville stepped out onto his balcony, glaring down at them. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m still a Musketeer, despite what _Athos_ may wish!” d'Artagnan said fiercely.

“We’ll settle this in private.” Treville stomped back inside. d'Artagnan glanced at the others; Aramis bowed ostentatiously, waving him towards the stairs.

Inside they stood in a tense row, eyeing each other, no one wanting to break first.

“So you’re not dead,” Athos drawled eventually.

“And you’re not drunk,” d'Artagnan agreed.

They were silent for a moment longer, and then d'Artagnan grinned, too happy with how pleased they were to see him to keep up the act. Porthos grinned widely, and Aramis laughed.

d'Artagnan wasn’t sure who started the hug, but Aramis was across from him, there was no danger of them touching, so he relaxed and enjoyed it for a moment. Athos brushed against his side by accident and he hissed. “Careful. I’m a wounded man, remember.”

“Sorry about that,” Athos said carelessly; there was genuine concern under that, though. “Is it bad?”

d'Artagnan glanced at Aramis. “Skipped off my ribs. I’m a little bruised. Nothing serious.”

“Porthos, is it bad?” Aramis demanded.

“Milady got a surgeon to look at him. He’s fine.”

“I’d like to look at it.”

“After,” d'Artagnan said quickly. “I can’t go back to Milady healed, she’ll notice. After we’re done, you can look.”

“d'Artagnan, does Milady believe we’ve abandoned you?” Treville asked.

“Almost. There’s just one tiny detail left I need to convince her.”

“And what’s that?” Athos asked.

d'Artagnan grinned, knowing full well the others were coming to hate that particular smile. “Nothing too difficult. I just need to kill you.”


	13. Musketeers Don't Die Easily, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, since the showrunners, in their wisdom, ended Season 2 that way, I can't possibly write anything set between 2 and 3 the way I did between 1 and 2. So instead, I'll be writing vignettes and AUs; things that happened elsewhere in the 'verse, or might have happened if one thing had gone differently. And I'm looking for prompts! I have some ideas already, but I'm not going to tell you what they are; I'd like to see if my ideas match what you'd like to see. :D So comment or PM with your ideas and I'll add them to the list!

d'Artagnan left shouting and cursing, promising retribution on them. Porthos held Athos back from following, letting the others out first.

“Shouldn’t you go after him?” Athos asked.

“I’ll catch him up. Listen, Athos. d'Artagnan probably won’t tell you this, but I think you ought to know.”

“All right,” Athos agreed calmly.

“He asked Milady what happened between you two. And she told him that your brother Thomas tried to force her into his bed. That that’s why she killed him.”

Athos shook his head slowly. “Thomas would never; he was a gentle boy. He loved her like a sister.”

“I figured she was trying to appeal to his sense of justice. Didn’t look like he believed her, but I don’t think he’ll tell you, and I want you to know what she’s saying.”

“Thank you,” Athos murmured. “Go. Don’t leave him alone with her until you have to.”

“I’ll be in the square at twelve. And I’m sending Aramis in now. You don’t need to be alone, either.”

Athos didn’t argue. He knew that would only worry Porthos more, but he was too tired to pretend he wanted to be left alone. Porthos thumped him on the shoulder as he left; there was a brief exchange outside, and then Aramis came in, still glancing over his shoulder at the departing Porthos.

“Porthos seems to think you would benefit from company.”

“I would like not to be alone,” Athos admitted.

Aramis grinned widely. “Our young friend is rubbing off on you, Athos. You’re actually admitting to an emotion.”

“Seems a little pointless not to, nowadays.”

“It’s good for you. Stops you brooding.”

“Yes,” Athos drawled. “Now as long as we make sure he’s never in a room with you and the Queen…”

“Low blow,” Aramis protested, but he was still smiling. “Should we expect any other figures from your past to appear and threaten all of France?”

“If they do, it will surprise me as much as you,” Athos promised. “Where’s Treville?”

“Attempting to smooth things over with the rest of the regiment. We can’t keep casting d'Artagnan as the villain, you realise; at some point, our brothers will stop believing us when we vindicate him.”

“You convince him to step back on the next one, then.”

“Are we expecting many more like this?”

Treville came in, pulling off his hat. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“We’re going, sir,” Aramis agreed.

“Be careful. All of you.”

“Aren’t we always?”

Treville scowled, looking at Athos. “Good luck.”

“Thank you, captain.” Athos nodded, turning to leave, Aramis at his shoulder.

 

d'Artagnan stood in Milady’s rooms, barely listening as she rambled about Athos’ death. He’d been concentrating intently on Athos during the fight, he _knew_ Athos wasn’t hurt, but he still couldn’t get the image out of his head. Athos lying still between Porthos and Aramis, blood pooled on his belly.

Milady was barely bothering to _push_ him any more. With Athos gone, d'Artagnan’s only hope was the Cardinal’s protection, and they both knew it. Right now, he needed her far more than she needed him.

“I thought you were like Athos,” she said dismissively. “I was wrong. He had greatness in him. He would not be frightened.”

“I’m not _frightened_ ,” d'Artagnan protested, trying to decide if that was actually regret she was feeling. “Just practical. There’s only one man who can help me stay alive, and I need to see him now.”

Milady came to stand in front of him, studying him for a long moment before reaching up to kiss him. d'Artagnan let her do it, but he couldn’t bring himself to respond, and after a moment she backed away, staring at him. “There’s someone else.”

“I’ve just _killed_ a man,” he protested. “It tends to dampen the mood.”

“Not in my experience.” She watched him for a moment longer. “You’re in love with that draper’s wife.”

“Constance means nothing to me,” he said instinctively. He didn’t want Milady anywhere near her.

“I see,” she murmured. “Well, perhaps you’re not Athos. But with the Cardinal’s help I can still make something of you. He’ll be expecting us by now.”

She went to step past him; d'Artagnan caught her wrist to halt her. “Tell me something,” he said softly. “Honestly.”

“Honestly,” she agreed, watching him curiously.

“Athos calls you Anne. Is that your name?”

She was silent for a long moment, studying him. “I have no name.”

“No name, only masks. That’s a lonely way to live.” He let go of her wrist, stepping away to open the door.

Behind him, Milady drew in a breath, trying to steady herself, and d'Artagnan smiled faintly, keeping his back turned to her. It wasn’t much, but any crack in her façade could help him later.

The Cardinal was enjoying this a little too much. d'Artagnan let him gloat for a while, fighting back only as much as he was expected to. When Richelieu promised to hang him for his crime, he acted.

He managed to surprise them both when he caught Milday, pressing the dagger to her throat. “Touch me and she dies,” he warned them.

“Well, do try not to get blood everywhere,” Richelieu said, bored.

“He's testing you, d'Artagnan,” Milady managed.

“I assure you I am not,” Richelieu corrected her. “There was a time when you might have been useful to me. What service can you offer me now?”

d'Artagnan thought quickly. Milady was trying to _push_ him into letting her go; if he held her much longer, she’d get suspicious. “You know Treville has a letter signed by the assassin Gallagher? It implicates you in the attempt to murder the Queen. I can get it for you.”

Richelieu considered him for a moment before waving the guards away. d'Artagnan let go of Milady, pushing her away from him. Fighting her _pushes_ was hard enough without having her too close.

“Why hasn't Treville produced it already?” Richelieu asked.

“He's waiting to condemn you at Mellendorf's trial, in front of the King. That way, no-one can suppress the evidence.”

“Tell me you weren't foolish enough to mention my name to Gallagher,” Richelieu said to Milady. She stayed quiet. d'Artagnan carefully did not react, but he was grateful. That had been one of the things they weren’t certain about, and he could have been in trouble. “How would you obtain it?”

d'Artagnan leaned on the desk, watching very carefully as he spoke. “Use me as bait. Tell Aramis and Porthos you'll hand me over in exchange for the letter.”

“Why should I do that when their intention was to destroy me?”

“No, no no. This is personal now. I killed their friend. Their code of honour demands my death. Believe me. I know how they think.”

“What about Treville? He would never allow it.”

He backed off again, making it seem like random, nervous energy. Richelieu was hooked now; the plan would go ahead. “Treville would never need to know. Aramis knows where the letter is kept.”

Richelieu glanced at Milady. “Is he right about them?”

“They loved Athos.” There was that regret again; he was certain this time. “They would do anything to avenge his death.”

“And what do you want in return?”

“Your guarantee of my safety, and a commission in the Red Guards.”

Richelieu waved a guard forward. “Send a message to the Musketeer Aramis. Tell him if he wants d'Artagnan, to bring Gallagher's letter to the old seminary at Le Place Mon Pere.” The guard nodded, slipping out of the room, and Richelieu turned to d'Artagnan. “Milady has other work to take care of, but this guard will show you somewhere you can wait.”

“My thanks,” d'Artagnan said, letting Richelieu see the contempt he’d be expecting. Turning, he followed the guard. His part of the plan was over now; it was down to Aramis and Porthos to finish it.

 

d'Artagnan held Athos back briefly as they prepared to go after Madame Bonacieux. “She was sorry you were dead,” he said quickly, not quite meeting Athos’ eyes. “She regretted it.”

“Regretted not doing it herself.”

“No, Athos. The loss of you – it hurt her.”

He turned to go before Athos could answer, and they didn’t have time to pick the conversation back up again as they prepared the cart and headed for the Rue Saint-Jacques. Athos spent most of the short fire fight trying to watch d'Artagnan’s back; the Gascon was wild, fighting to get to Madame Bonacieux without paying much attention to who he was going through to get there. Athos had to haul him back as they rounded the corner into the tunnel where Anne was waiting.

"One more step and she dies," Anne warned him.

Athos ignored it, taking a couple of steps towards her. "Stop this now. You've hurt enough people."

"You dare to talk to me about hurt?"

Athos saw Madame Bonacieux's eyes flicker just before she moved, pushing the pistol to one side. Anne fired instinctively; the shot lodged in the ceiling above them, and Athos caught her arm before she could go for any of the other weapons she was undoubtedly carrying. Constance fled past him, throwing herself into d'Artagnan’s arms, crying and talking too quickly for him to follow.

"Enough," Athos said softly. "It's over. Kneel." Anne obeyed, eyes locked on his, and he drew his sword. "Do you have anything to say?"

"Go ahead. Finish what you started."

Aramis and Porthos came up on either side of him; neither tried to touch him, but they were close enough that he couldn't ignore them. "You don't have to do this," Aramis said softly.

"Leave this to the proper authorities, Athos," Porthos agreed.

Athos shook his head slightly. They didn't _understand_. "I made her what she is. Her murders are on my head."

"No," d'Artagnan said softly from behind them. Athos ignored him.

"It is you who should be on your knees," Anne told him. "Now kill me and do a better job of it than last time."

Athos stared at her for a long moment, sword resting gently just above her breast. Eventually he pulled back slightly, sheathing his sword and pulling her roughly to her feet. "Go to Spain. England. Anywhere. I don't care. But if you ever show your face in Paris again I will kill you, without hesitation."

Anne touched his face gently. "You know there can be no peace for either of us, until we are both dead." Athos nodded very slightly, and she turned away, vanishing into the shadows at the end of the tunnel.

Athos watched for a moment, until she was gone; then he pulled her locket out from under his shirt, breaking the chain with a sharp pull and holding it in one hand.

He turned back to the others, studying them for a moment. d'Artagnan shifted, choosing his words carefully. "I'm glad you saved her."

"Perhaps I was saving myself," Athos murmured. Stepping past them, out of the tunnel, he dropped the locket on the ground and walked on, feeling immeasurably lighter.

 

Constance pulled d'Artagnan to one side as the others talked briefly. "You're glad he didn't kill her?"

"Not for her sake," d'Artagnan assured her. "For his. He never would have forgiven himself, no matter what she did to deserve it." He studied her carefully. "You're sure you're not hurt?"

“She hit me,” she admitted, reaching for her cheek. d'Artagnan caught her fingers in his, gently brushing a thumb over the rising bruise. “Ow,” she murmured, though it hadn’t hurt her.

“Sorry,” he apologised, half turning. “Aramis?”

“It’s just a bruise,” Constance protested, but Aramis was already coming over.

“Milady struck her,” d’Artagnan said.

Aramis studied her for a moment before peeling off one glove. “With your permission, madame?” Constance nodded, and he gently tilted her head to see better. “Ah, that’s nothing much,” he said briskly. “I’m sure it hurt badly at the time, but I don’t think it’ll even bruise.” He glanced at Athos briefly. “I would take it as a kindness if we didn’t mention this to Athos,” he murmured, taking a step back. “He would likely take it badly, knowing that she hurt you.”

“Of course,” Constance agreed quickly.

“Can I take Constance home now?” d'Artagnan asked, glancing towards Athos and Porthos.

“Go ahead. We’ll take care of this.” Aramis bowed to Constance, turning to head back to the others.

They didn’t talk much as they walked. Constance was – not ashamed, but oddly rueful, and d'Artagnan couldn’t tell why. It made him reluctant to try anything, especially when she pulled away when he reached for her hand.

“Someone might see,” she said quietly.

“Who cares?” d'Artagnan asked, pulling her gently in. She wanted this, and so did he, and it was getting increasingly hard to separate her feelings from his.

“d'Artagnan, please – nothing’s changed.”

“Everything’s changed,” he murmured into her hair. “The Cardinal can’t touch us. That’s all over with. I love you, and I know you love me. Say it.”

“I love you,” she murmured. “But…no, stop.” She pushed gently and he let go, backing off a step. “I can’t just leave Bonacieux. What would I do?”

“Anything you want.”

“Musketeers don’t marry, d'Artagnan.”

“I’ll start a new trend. Captain Treville is married.” He cupped her cheek, watching her, almost drunk on how much she wanted him. “We can make this work. I promise. Don’t you trust me?”

“That’s not fair,” she mumbled, but she was smiling, leaning in to kiss him.

“Madame Bonacieux!” The Bonacieux maid hurried around a corner, frightened, almost panicking. “Come quickly! The master has tried to kill himself!”

Not a very serious try, d'Artagnan thought when he saw the man, but he was sincere in his fear of losing Constance and his promise to kill himself if she tried to leave. And he knew, as soon as Bonacieux said it, what Constance would do.

He let her usher him out, already numb. “I can’t leave him,” she said quietly. “Not like this.”

“He’s bluffing,” d'Artagnan said, but he didn’t believe it and he knew she didn’t either.

“We can’t know that. What if he really did it? Later, perhaps. When he doesn’t need me so badly – things might be different.”

“He’ll never make you happy,” d'Artagnan said helplessly.

Constance flinched, looking down. She knew he was right; but she wasn’t willing to have another death on her conscience, and he couldn’t blame her, not really. “Goodbye, d'Artagnan,” she murmured. “It was a beautiful dream.”

d'Artagnan kissed her hands gently, letting go and turning away. He didn’t falter when he heard her say softly “I love you.”

 

They should have thought of this, Athos thought grimly.

When the King announced Queen Anne's pregnancy it took Athos a moment to understand the implications. Glancing at Aramis, he saw that the other man had realised, too.

And then d'Artagnan doubled over, making an inarticulate noise of grief. Athos steadied him quickly; Treville stepped in on his other side, keeping him upright.

"Well, what on earth is wrong?" Louis asked.

"My apologies, your majesty," Athos said quickly. "d'Artagnan was wounded two days ago on a mission. I'm afraid he's not fully recovered yet."

Anne gestured to one of the servants. "Take them to a room to rest," she ordered. "See that they're given anything they need."

"Your majesty is most gracious," Athos told her. Porthos came to replace Treville, though d'Artagnan was more or less able to walk now, and they followed the servant, Aramis on their heels.

They were brought to a room that clearly hadn't been used for some time; the servant offered to send for a maid to clean up, but Athos shook his head. "We require privacy only. Please ensure no one comes in."

"I will make certain," the servant promised, backing out and closing the doors firmly.

Aramis pulled off his glove, turning to d'Artagnan. "Is it your side?"

"It's not my side. Don't touch me."

"Let me see what's wrong."

"Don't touch me!" d'Artagnan slapped his hand aside, retreating a couple of steps.

"d'Artagnan," Athos snapped.

d'Artagnan shook his head. One hand was rubbing at his wrist, but he hadn't retrieved his beads from the garrison yet. This had to be serious; he rarely seemed to turn to them anymore. "It's not my side. I'm not injured."

"Then what is it?"

He looked at Aramis. "It's you. I'm sorry, I know you hate it, I swear it's not on purpose. How do you – _god_. It's like you're tearing apart inside. How do you bear it?"

Aramis looked down, fussing with his glove. "I bear it because I must. And I have friends to help me." He looked back up, and d'Artagnan immediately looked away. "How can I help you?"

"I'm sorry, I need you to leave for a little while. I can fix this, but not while you're here screaming at me." He made an obvious effort, but he couldn't meet Aramis' eyes for more than a second. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry; be honest. If my absence is what helps you, my absence is what you'll get. How far do you need me to go?"

d'Artagnan glanced at Athos. "Stay with me?" Athos nodded, and he looked back in Aramis' direction. "Off the palace grounds should be enough."

"We'll meet you at the garrison," Athos said briskly. "And we will talk about this."

"Will we?" Aramis muttered. "Changed your stance on treason, then."

"Oh, god," Porthos blurted. "Really, Aramis?"

Athos glanced at d'Artagnan, who'd retreated to the window, and shook his head. "Later, gentlemen." To Porthos, he added, "Make sure he doesn't go anywhere."

Porthos nodded, shepherding Aramis out of the room. d'Artagnan visibly relaxed, though he was still tense, eyes locked on the floor.

"What do you need?" Athos asked quietly.

"From you? Nothing. Just your presence." Glancing up, he added, "I'd explain, but historically that hasn't gone well for you."

"Brat," Athos said, because it would be expected. d'Artagnan smiled, relaxing more with every moment. "Tell me if you need anything else." d'Artagnan nodded, eyes sliding shut, murmuring under his breath. Athos took a step back, leaning against the wall by the door, and settled in to wait.


	14. Interlude, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really enjoyed reading your ideas for extra scenes! Keep them coming!

d'Artagnan used prayer to calm himself. Mostly in Gascon, but they’d all heard him do it often enough by now; Athos could follow the cadence, knew that he was almost finished. He pushed away from the wall, crossing to the door and pulling it open. The servant was still waiting patiently outside. Athos asked for something to drink and the man bowed, hurrying away.

d'Artagnan was watching him when he turned back around. “Feel better?” he asked, closing the door.

“Yes, thank you.”

Athos studied him for a moment. “Do you know what was wrong with Aramis?”

d'Artagnan shook his head. “Something about the babe. I assumed it was because of his; the child that died.” He blinked. “That’s not it? What is it, then?”

“Aramis should tell you himself. I only know because I was there.”

“It’s why you were so angry,” d'Artagnan murmured. “After the convent.”

“Yes.”

The servant knocked on the door, offering sweet wine and cold water. Athos accepted both, glancing at d'Artagnan, who reached for the water first. Athos closed the door on the servant and turned back to him.

“I won’t ask,” d'Artagnan offered. “But don’t assume that I’m an idiot.”

Athos smiled faintly, hearing the echo of his own words. “I have never thought that.”

d'Artagnan glanced up, grinning. “Really? Never?”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Really?”

“I need to know, if that’s going to happen again.”

d'Artagnan nodded, eyes dark. “I can’t promise it won’t.”

“Tell me.”

d'Artagnan nodded, thinking. “I use shields to keep from being overwhelmed by the things I sense.”

“Yes,” Athos agreed, when he realised d'Artagnan was waiting to be sure he understood.

“Shielding on its’ own is difficult and tiring. Using something as a base helps; it strengthens the shields, it lets me hold them for longer.”

“Yes.”

“I use my rosary, a lot. Because I know it so well, it’s so familiar to me.”

“Yes.”

“But it’s been pointed out to me that relying on something so easily taken from me is foolish.”

“Yes.”

d'Artagnan glanced up, meeting his eyes. “You are very familiar to me.”

It took Athos several moments before he realised what d'Artagnan meant. “You’re basing your shields on me.”

“Not just you, the others, too. The more people the better, the easier it is – but you, Porthos and Aramis the most. And I can’t shield against the people who _are_ my shield. That’s why this hit me so hard. I’ve adjusted now, so I’m not leaning so heavily on Aramis, until he feels better. But if something happens to you, to Porthos…” He shrugged helplessly.

Athos closed his eyes, trying to decide where to start. “You’re making yourself vulnerable,” he said finally.

“No.” d'Artagnan had pulled back, physically, and Athos wondered vaguely what he was feeling right now. “Less vulnerable, actually. I know you; even when they’re overwhelming, your emotions are easier to deal with than anything from someone I don’t know.”

“You know me,” Athos repeated softly.

“Athos, nothing has changed,” d'Artagnan said urgently. “The longer I spend with someone, the more I know them; you know that. Shielding on you doesn’t change that. It doesn’t affect you.” He flinched at whatever he was feeling; Athos couldn’t even tell. “Athos.”

“It doesn’t affect me,” Athos repeated, trying to convince himself of it.

“I can stop. Athos, I can stop, I’ll find something else. Please, just – I’ll stop. Please stop looking at me like I've betrayed you."

Athos closed his eyes against the rush of anger. d'Artagnan shifted, and he snapped "A moment to react, if that's not too much to ask."

"No," d'Artagnan said quietly. "Of course not. I've stopped shielding on you, and I'm shielding against you. I won't feel anything from you until you tell me I can."

Athos almost said _how generous_ , but he stopped himself in time. d'Artagnan was following his nature and doing what he needed to, and Athos had known for a long time that he had no real secrets anymore. This, though, felt different, more intimate somehow.

"Who knows about this?" he asked finally.

"Treville knows the generalities." d'Artagnan shook his head when Athos looked up. "That's all. This doesn't affect you, or the others, it doesn't change anything, and nothing you can do affects it; there's no extra caution to be taken, nothing to avoid. It honestly didn't occur to me to speak of it. At first I didn't even know I was doing it."

"You didn't know," Athos repeated flatly.

"After Vadim – I shielded so long, and so tightly, I had trouble getting any kind of shield back up. Too exhausted. The beads helped a little, but not enough. But when you were nearby, it was easier. I could handle things more easily."

"Me? Or us?"

"You, at first. After la Fere..."

"You came to my rooms," Athos murmured. Most of that evening was lost, like many others, to the alcohol he'd had, but he remembered enough. "You had questions, about the house, about my childhood."

"When my shield is built on you," d'Artagnan said carefully, "it's harder to tell my emotions from yours. At least, it was then; it's easier now, practise and exposure. What you felt about the house, I did too; I came back for you because when you passed out, my sense of you fell away, and even without knowing why I knew something was wrong."

Athos shook his head slowly. "Knowing that I am angry, or Treville is tired, or that someone means us harm – that's one thing, d'Artagnan; surface things, they mean nothing. But how I've felt about the house, how I felt about _Anne_ –“

"I know," d'Artagnan murmured. "I'm sorry, I truly am. I honestly didn't know, at first, and by the time I understood it felt natural, it felt right, and it made things so much easier for me. I'll stop. I swear it."

Athos struggled for a moment. "Stop for now, if you can," he said finally. "You should talk to the others, explain to them. We will discuss it as a group and see what we'll do. We won't leave you suffering."

"I can. I'm sorry."

"I know you are. If you're ready, we'll go to talk to the others now."

 

Aramis was vaguely surprised when d'Artagnan turned up at his rooms on his own. “Where’s Athos?” he asked, waving him to a seat.

“He went to speak with Treville, to tell him what’s happening. He won’t be long.” d'Artagnan shook his head at the offered drink.

“I’m sorry,” Aramis started, but d'Artagnan shook his head again.

“It’s not your fault; it’s mine.”

“Yours?” Porthos said.

d'Artagnan shifted. “When Athos gets here.”

“Yes, I think there’s plenty to talk about when Athos gets here,” Aramis murmured.

“He doesn’t care about whatever you did anymore, he’s just angry at me.”

“Angry at you,” Aramis repeated in surprise, and nodded quickly when d'Artagnan shook his head. “Yes, when he gets here.”

Porthos began talking loudly about the newest recruits and the chances they each had at making it through Musketeer training. Aramis joined in, but he was watching d'Artagnan. The boy was restless in a way Aramis hadn’t seen in a long time, folded in on himself, paying little attention to them. “d'Artagnan,” he said finally, reaching for his wrist.

“Don’t,” d'Artagnan said quietly.

“If I’m still hurting you…”

“No, it’s not you, it’s me. You won’t feel anything if you touch me.”

“You’re shielding,” Aramis murmured, reaching for his wrist anyway. d'Artagnan let him do it, but he was right, there was barely any sense of him. “Why?”

“I promised Athos I would.”

“It’s going to hurt you after a while.”

“I have time.”

“How much time?” Porthos asked.

“Days. Three or four at least.” He twisted gently out of Aramis’ hold, and there was something wrong about that, but Aramis couldn’t put his finger on what. “I’m fine.”

“d'Artagnan…”

“I’m fine,” he said again. “Aramis, if you were worried – I don’t know what was wrong. Only that the grief nearly killed you. I don’t know what it was about.”

Aramis nodded, careful not to let anything show on his face. “I thought you wouldn’t. I am sorry it hurt you.”

“It doesn’t matter.” d'Artagnan pushed away from the table, crossing to the window to look out.

Porthos caught Aramis’ eye, raising an eyebrow. Aramis shrugged, picking up the conversation about the apprentices. Porthos joined in without missing a beat, and they ignored d'Artagnan, letting him do whatever he was doing in peace.

Athos arrived a little later, glancing from Aramis to Porthos and pointedly ignoring d'Artagnan. “Aramis,” he said softly.

Aramis shook his head. “It passes; everything passes. I’m fine, Athos.”

“Mmm.” Athos glanced at d'Artagnan, who was watching them carefully, leaning against the window; as far away as he could get without leaving the room, Aramis thought. “What have you said?”

“Nothing. I was waiting for you.”

“He’s blocking everything out,” Aramis said, not quite managing to keep the accusatory tone from his voice.

“Yes,” Athos agreed blandly. “Tell me about shields, Aramis.”

“What?” Aramis frowned, derailed. “I don’t shield.”

“I know you don’t. Tell me about shields.”

Aramis glanced at d'Artagnan, who met his gaze without making any move to answer. A test, Aramis realised, heart sinking. Athos wanted to know if d'Artagnan had been truthful with him. What could possibly have happened to upset Athos so?

“Think of emotions as noise,” he said finally, thoughts racing. “It’s not accurate, but it will do for now. Stronger emotions are louder, and emotions from someone you know well are easier to hear. But there’s always noise, because everyone’s always feeling something. All right?”

“All right,” Athos agreed. Porthos was listening intently.

“The stronger the empath, the more sound they pick up. d'Artagnan’s very strong, stronger than any other empath I’ve worked with. And the more people around, the more sound. So Paris is harder than an empty field in the countryside.”

“Shields,” Athos said impatiently.

“I’m getting there,” Aramis snapped. “You need the background to understand.” Athos scowled, and Aramis sighed. “You can filter, or you can shield. Filtering blocks out one person’s noise. Shielding blocks out everyone. Both are difficult to do, both are sometimes necessary.”

“d'Artagnan uses those beads,” Porthos murmured.

Aramis nodded. “Basing a shield on something makes it easier, makes it stronger. Every empath I’ve ever met based their shields on something or someone.”

Athos twitched, a barely noticeable movement, and Aramis grimaced as he realised what was happening. “Oh, _d'Artagnan_ ,” he said softly.

“I didn’t know,” d'Artagnan said, but his tone was flat and he clearly didn’t expect it to mean much.

“What am I missing?” Porthos demanded.

Aramis waited for Athos to answer; when he didn’t, Aramis rolled his eyes and said “I’m guessing, but I think d'Artagnan has been basing his shields on us. That’s why I affected him so badly; if he’s using us to shield on, we’re inside the shield.” d'Artagnan nodded very slightly; Aramis sighed, looking at Porthos. “It’s among the deepest connections an empath can make. Simply working with us would not form a connection near so strong. There’s little we’d have felt he wouldn’t have known about.”

Porthos frowned, clearly considering. “How long’s that been going on?” he asked, looking at d'Artagnan.

d'Artagnan shook his head. “I didn’t know I was doing it; I don’t know when it started. After la Fere, I knew I was Reading more from Athos than I meant to. I can’t tell you how long, I’m sorry.”

“la Fere was months ago,” Porthos said neutrally.

“I know,” d'Artagnan agreed miserably. “The shielding – it doesn’t affect you, and there’s nothing you need to do, to keep it going. It didn’t occur to me, even when I knew what was happening, to tell you. It just – it made things easier for me. Paris is hard. It’s loud and it never stops. The shields – but I’ll stop,” he corrected himself. Aramis wondered if he’d missed some sign from Athos. “I should have asked; I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

“You can’t keep doing what you’re doing,” Aramis murmured. “That won’t work for long. And the beads are still a bad idea.”

“I’ll find something else,” d'Artagnan insisted.

Porthos shrugged, reaching for the bottle on the table. “Doesn’t bother me. You keep on doing whatever you’re doing.” Pointing the neck of the bottle accusingly at d'Artagnan, he added, “Long as you’re keeping it to yourself.”

d'Artagnan nodded quickly. “I always do.”

“Good. Then if it helps, it makes it easier on you, you do what you need to.” He considered for a moment. “What’ll happen if I Fade?”

“If I have warning, even a couple of seconds, it’ll be fine. If I’m not looking at you, it’s fine. If I’m looking straight at you and there’s no warning…” He shrugged. “I’ll deal with it.”

Athos stirred slightly. “You know what you’re offering him?”

“I’m offering to help him,” Porthos agreed.

“You’re offering him everything you feel. Everything you are.”

“Everything I feel and everything I am is mine to offer. It helps him, it’s worth it.”

“Thank you,” d'Artagnan murmured, and Aramis was almost sure he wasn’t imagining the fine tremors running through the boy.

He took a step closer, waiting until d'Artagnan looked up. “You know that I am happy to help,” he said quietly. “But maybe, not right now. Not until…” He gestured helplessly. Anger and grief were still burning bright and he didn’t want to hurt d'Artagnan any more than he had already.

“Thank you,” d'Artagnan repeated softly.

Porthos cleared his throat loudly. Aramis looked up, following his gaze to Athos, who was scowling intently at the table top.

“Athos,” Aramis said, when the silence stretched on.

Athos lifted his head, but he wasn’t meeting anyone’s eyes. “I thought – I need time.”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan said immediately.

“Athos,” Porthos protested. “He needs it.”

“Porthos, leave it,” Aramis said quietly.

“Leave it,” d'Artagnan echoed. “As much time as you want, Athos.”

Athos’ face twitched in the way Aramis knew meant he was restraining himself from saying whatever he was thinking. “Athos,” he said hurriedly. “Did you want to talk about anything else?”

Athos glanced up, gaze sweeping over him. “Do we need to?”

Aramis carefully didn’t look at Porthos. “I think maybe we should.”

“Let me guess,” Porthos said. “At the convent the queen was frightened, and alone, and she came to you for protection…”

“Not quite,” Aramis said, vaguely insulted.

“You just decided on your own?”

“Porthos!”

Porthos grinned unrepentantly, and Aramis sighed. “I did not decide on my own. The queen has – had – something wrong inside, something that made her unable to bear children.”

d'Artagnan shifted. “She’s pregnant.”

“Now,” Aramis agreed. “She touched me, and once I knew she was damaged…” He trailed off, gesturing weakly.

“Downside,” d'Artagnan murmured. Aramis nodded, one eye on Porthos.

“I had to help her; I couldn’t not. And the only way to stay in contact with her for long enough…” He trailed off again, finding that he didn’t want to say the words.

Porthos considered him. “The kid yours?”

“The child is of Louis and will always, only, be of Louis,” Aramis said, keeping his voice as flat as possible. Porthos nodded, eyes softening, but he didn’t make any move to commiserate or apologise and Aramis was glad of it.

“You wouldn’t have told us,” d'Artagnan murmured.

“It’s treason. Just _knowing_ about it is treason, and Louis has everything he needs to take care of any one of us if he chooses. I wanted you to be safe.”

"He can't get rid of any of us without getting rid of all of us," Athos said patiently. They'd had this conversation more than once.

"It doesn't matter," Aramis said with a sigh. "It's done now. God willing, the queen will deliver a healthy babe, and many more after this one." Looking at Porthos and d'Artagnan, he added, "If it ever does come to light, if you two wanted to claim ignorance – you weren't there, you couldn't have known."

"All for one," d'Artagnan said firmly.

Porthos nodded. "We don't leave each other to suffer when we can help."

" _Porthos_ ," d'Artagnan protested.

Athos gave no sign that he'd even noticed the jibe. "It's late," he said briskly. "And it's been a long day. Everyone to rest; Treville expects us back on duty tomorrow."

He looked at d'Artagnan, who shook his head quietly. "Take what time you need, Athos. I'd rather you did, and I'll accept your answer, whatever it is."

Athos nodded, studying him for a moment before turning away and letting himself out. Porthos sighed, pushing his chair back and picking up his hat.

"I mean it, d'Artagnan. If it helps you, you go ahead. I don't reckon I've many secrets by now, anyway."

"Thank you," d'Artagnan murmured. "And if it ever – if you change your mind, or something happens – you'll let me know?"

"Reckon you'll know first, but yeah. I'll tell you." He glanced at Aramis. "You want company?"

"Not yet. Thank you."

He nodded, heading out. Aramis turned to d'Artagnan with a sigh. "Athos will come around."

"Maybe."

"He is an intensely private man, you've just shocked him. He'll come around."

"Maybe," d'Artagnan repeated. "And if he doesn't, he doesn't, Aramis. Help that's not offered freely is worse than no help at all. Make Porthos promise you; those little remarks, the looks, they stop. If Athos wants to stay private, I'll find another way."

"I'll talk to Porthos," Aramis promised. "It really never occurred to you to come to us with this?"

"I didn't know. There's a saying in Gascony; one of those sayings that doesn't really exist, you know." He said it in Gascon and then thought. "The closest I can translate it – something along the lines of, _when you're tired of life, admit your Ability_. If you have an Ability, you don't speak of it or show it, not ever. You're the first person – well, no. There are people I knew had Abilities, but not that I could approach…I learned how to handle it myself, and I may not have done it right but I always did my best."

"I know you did," Aramis promised. "We'll work this out, d'Artagnan."

d'Artagnan nodded, lips pressed tightly together, and slipped out. Aramis sank on his bed, trying to think of a way to help the shattered remains of his team.


	15. Interlude, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm loving all the ideas and prompts! This week, I have a little poll, for a minor plot point in Season Two. Who thinks Thomas attacked Milady in some way, and who thinks she just killed him for some other reason and made up the attack thinking Athos would forgive her?

Porthos lasted three days before he gave in.

d'Artagnan had been quiet and withdrawn, like the early days all over again. Porthos had thought it was grief back then; now he recognised the way d'Artagnan was pulling in on himself, losing himself in keeping them away. Athos had been scrupulously polite, leading d'Artagnan through training and leaving immediately afterwards. Aramis floated around the outskirts of the group, watching as they quietly disintegrated. Porthos felt bad for him; Aramis couldn’t help with emotional pain, but it hurt him just the same to watch it happen.

On the third morning, when Athos stiffened because d'Artagnan had walked past behind him, Porthos pushed to his feet, taking a step back to look at the walkway above. “Captain!”

“What are you doing?” Athos hissed, but Treville had already stepped up to the railing.

“What is it?” he called down.

“Me and d'Artagnan need a day.”

“I’ll rearrange the duty rosters at once, shall I?” Treville studied them for a moment. Porthos knew he knew something was wrong, he was too good a captain not to, but he had no idea how much Athos had or hadn’t told him. “This important?”

“Yes, sir.”

“One day?”

“One day, sir.”

Treville nodded briskly. “You’ll patrol tomorrow instead.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Athos, Aramis, palace by the next bell.”

“Captain,” Athos agreed. Treville went back into his office and Athos reached across the table to catch Porthos’ arm. “What are you doing?”

“Helping,” Porthos said shortly, jerking free. “C’mon, d'Artagnan.”

d'Artagnan hesitated until Aramis caught his eye and tilted his head towards the gate. d'Artagnan nodded, following Porthos out into the street.

He was quiet for a while, until they were several streets away; Porthos wondered idly if he was tracking Aramis. He had no idea whether d'Artagnan had started shielding on Aramis again, or whether he was even shielding on him yet.

“Where are we going?” he asked finally.

“Court.”

“We aren’t –“ He hesitated. “The other Court.”

Porthos grinned at him. “Court of Miracles, yeah. Not scared, are you?”

“I’ve been there before,” d'Artagnan reminded him.

“You didn’t see anything of the Court that time.”

He was silent for a moment. “What are we doing, Porthos?”

Porthos pulled him into an alley, heading along it quickly. They’d have been spotted by now; Flea’s guards knew who he was. “You know who comes to the Court?”

“Everyone and anyone.”

“d'Artagnan,” Porthos said warningly.

“People who could pass the requirement,” d'Artagnan said obligingly.

“Yes. All kinds of requirement passers. Including, I hope, someone like you.”

“Porthos,” d'Artagnan murmured.

“Will it hurt?” he demanded.

“No,” d'Artagnan said on a sigh. “I don’t think it’ll hurt.”

“Then let’s talk to Flea, at least.” Porthos eyed him. “You’ll have to actually talk about it.”

“I can talk about it! I talk to you about it.”

“You talk to us about it, and that’s it,” Porthos agreed. “And maybe Treville.”

“You grew up here in the Court,” d'Artagnan reminded him. “Abilities every time you turned around. People were _killed_ in Lupiac, just for being _accused_. They didn’t even have proof, most of the time. _Children_ were killed, and we were expected to attend and cheer if we didn’t want to raise suspicions.”

“That must’ve been tough,” Porthos said quietly.

“Taught me to shield pretty well,” d'Artagnan said bleakly.

“Did you know Flea made me a Knight of the Court?” Porthos said brightly.

“What?” d'Artagnan blinked. “No.”

“Wanted to make me Prince, but I’m never coming back here and she knows it.”

“Apart from right now,” d'Artagnan pointed out.

Porthos cuffed him lightly, smiling when he glared. “I’m never coming back here to _stay_. Good thing about being a Knight, though? I can extend the protection of the Court to anyone I want.” Catching d'Artagnan’s eye, he said firmly, “No one here touches you, no one brings harm to you. My word and Flea’s bond. Yes?”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan murmured, eyes bright. Porthos turned away, pretending he needed to scan the alleys for their path. He didn’t think he was fooling d'Artagnan, but that wasn’t really the point.

When he turned back d'Artagnan was watching him patiently, one shoulder propped against the nearest wall. “This way,” he said brightly, gesturing down one of the alleys.

Flea’s guards showed up a little further on. Porthos didn’t bother stopping, not until they tried to block d'Artagnan; then he turned on his heel, flipping his cloak back in the same move to reveal his sword. “He’s with me,” he said firmly. The guards backed away and Porthos gestured to d'Artagnan to catch up.

“Knight of the Court?” d'Artagnan muttered.

“They didn’t stop me, did they? Come on.”

Flea met them a couple of streets down, sauntering up to press a kiss to his lips before backing away, leading them off the street into a room. “Need something?”

“Good to see you too, Flea,” Porthos said, amused.

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” She looked past him at d'Artagnan. “We weren’t introduced last time, I think.”

“d'Artagnan.” He took her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles as though she were a lady.

“I like him,” Flea announced.

“Good, ‘cause I’m looking for help for him.”

“ ‘Course you are,” Flea agreed. “What do you need?”

Porthos glanced at d'Artagnan and back at Flea. “Got any empaths in the Court?”

Flea eyed d'Artagnan curiously. “People or things?”

“People’s more important right now, but either’ll do.”

“You Musketeers get all the good ones,” Flea said with a sigh. Turning, she shouted to one of the guards, “Send someone to fetch Flora.”

Porthos didn’t recognise the name, but it didn’t surprise him. The occupants of the Court were constantly changing. “Flea,” he said softly, and she let him usher her a few steps away. “Boy’s a bit nervous,” he murmured. “He’s out of Gascony and they’re strict there. He’s still getting used to me.”

“Flora’ll be gentle,” Flea assured him. “She’s a good sort. He having problems?”

“Self taught. Tricky thing to get right, the way I understand it.”

Flea draped her arms around his neck, grinning at him. “You know, it might take him a while to learn. We should probably find something else to do in the meantime.”

“Flea,” he said, half warningly. His hands came to rest on her hips, though, fitting as though made for the space.

“Come on, Musketeer boy. Don’t you want to show me your weapons?”

d'Artagnan choked from across the room and Flea turned in Porthos’ arms to glare at him. “Have Flora explain about eavesdropping,” she ordered.

“Yes ma’am,” d'Artagnan said quickly, turning away to stare intently at a blank patch of wall. Flea grinned, leaning comfortably against Porthos, but she didn’t push any further.

Flora arrived a few minutes later; she was a matronly woman close to Porthos’ age, and she immediately took charge, bustling d'Artagnan into a corner. Porthos watched for a few minutes, until it was obvious that d'Artagnan was co-operating, and then he let Flea guide him out.

They didn’t do anything, in the end, just strolled through the Court, talking quietly. Flea had always been easy to talk to, and Porthos found himself giving her a general version of the problems they’d been having lately. In return, she talked about the Court, about the Cardinal’s never ending attempts to clear them out and about the constant struggle to keep her people fed and someway safe.

“He always that obvious?” she said in the middle of a discussion on which taverns were working with them to rob the patrons.

“Who?”

“Your boy. Didn’t bother to hide he was listening to us.”

“Nah, that’s not usual. Not around other people, anyway. Guess he believed me.”

“Believed you?” she repeated.

Porthos shrugged. “Told you he was nervous about showing his Ability. I promised him he’d be safe here. I guess he heard me.”

“Flora’s told me the Court feels safe. Maybe he’s picking that up. He sensitive?”

“Can be, when he’s trying. He’s been pretty closed off the last couple days. Trouble with the team.”

Flea kissed him very gently. “It’ll pass,” she murmured. “Nothing keeps you four apart. I could see that much soon as I saw you.”

“I hope so. It’s bad, Flea.”

“It’ll pass,” she repeated. “And if your boy needs to relax some, feel safe, he can come here whenever he wants. We’ll take care of him.” Smile turning wicked, she added, “Could take care of you, too, if you’d let me.”

“Not funny,” Porthos warned her, kissing her before turning to wander on.

Flora sent for them some hours later. d'Artagnan was sleeping, looking completely exhausted; Porthos brushed a hand over his forehead before turning questioningly to Flora.

“That boy’s holding himself together on sheer determination,” she said flatly. “I’m surprised he made it this far without proper training. Can you bring him back?”

“He’s an active Musketeer,” Porthos warned her.

“He has time. Not much, but some. Get him here whenever you can. Even Musketeers get days off, yes?”

“Yeah, but not regular.”

Flora smiled faintly, patting his cheek. “I’m usually here. And whatever's going on with you lot, get it fixed. Stability's important for us."

Porthos nodded. "We're working on it. Flora?" She made a questioning noise, and he said carefully, "We have a friend, knows a bit about empaths. He says d'Artagnan's strong, stronger'n most. That right?"

"Strength is hard to define for empaths," Flora said thoughtfully. "Is the stronger empath the one who picks up a little from many people, or a lot from a few...? Certainly d'Artagnan can Read people from a far greater distance than I can. So yes, I suppose he is strong."

"Thank you," Porthos said politely. Flora nodded, slipping out of the room, and he glanced at the sleeping d'Artagnan.

"I've got to go," Flea said quietly. "Court business. Shout if you need anything, someone will be around."

"Cheers, Flea."

d'Artagnan slept for another hour or so before waking, looking hazily around the room before focusing on Porthos. "H'lo," he murmured.

"Hello," Porthos echoed. "How do you feel?"

"Tired. Flora's a – a hard worker."

"Do you think it helped?"

d'Artagnan rubbed his forehead. "I think it will. Eventually. Like exercising after injury. Right now it just hurts."

"She says you've to come back to her. Flea’s already promised you're allowed in whenever."

"Yes." d'Artagnan reached for his arm, bracing himself as he sat up. "I'll need to come back, I think."

"Treville'll let you off. Or you can come down nights, whatever."

"I'll work it out. Porthos? Thank you."

"Told you," Porthos said gently. "Anything that helps you. You ready? Let's get back, Aramis'll be back by now and he'll worry if we're not there."

 

Treville had been waiting for the Inseparables, watching for them, half expecting them to all come back together. Something was wrong there, he knew that, but he couldn’t imagine anything coming between them, not for long.

Aramis and Athos returned from the palace. Athos immediately sat at the table and started cleaning his pistol; Aramis brought food, but he was half hearted about making him eat, and that was wrong, too.

Porthos and d'Artagnan arrived a while later, d'Artagnan settling beside Aramis, Porthos leaning against the nearby support column, out of view under Treville’s balcony.

“Where have you been?” Athos demanded.

“I was with Porthos,” d'Artagnan said easily, reaching for the bread on Aramis’ plate.

“ _Where_ were you with Porthos?”

“In the city.”

Aramis touched d'Artagnan’s chin to get his attention, studying him. “Were you swimming?”

d'Artagnan smiled. “No. I wasn’t swimming.”

“Not a bad idea, though,” Porthos said. “We should think about that.”

“Maybe,” d'Artagnan agreed.

“Where were you?” Athos asked, this time to Porthos.

“We were in the city,” Porthos said blandly. “d'Artagnan, I’ve got to talk to Treville, you want to come?”

d'Artagnan shook his head. “I’m hungry.”

“You all right with me telling him, then?”

“It was your idea.”

“What was?” Athos asked, but they both ignored him, d'Artagnan eating and Porthos swinging out from under the balcony to head upstairs. He didn’t look surprised to see Treville on the balcony, only glanced towards the office. Treville nodded, waving him in and closing the door behind them.

“If I should happen to ask where you were, what would you say?” he asked conversationally, rounding the desk to sit.

“In the city,” Porthos told him. “Getting d'Artagnan the help he needs.”

“He needs help?”

“Problems with his shields. Aramis can’t help, right now, and Athos won’t, and I’m not enough on my own. So I went and found him help.”

“Found,” Treville repeated, carefully non-committal.

“You know me, Captain. Nothing I can’t find in this city if I’m trying.”

That was as good as admitting they’d been to the Court. Treville didn’t bother to push. Deniability was important, sometimes.

“Athos won’t help,” he said belatedly, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“Athos is angry at the kid.”

“Why?”

Porthos shrugged. “Aramis’d explain it better. Something about the shields d'Artagnan’s been using being based on us, makes it easier for him to read us. Athos doesn’t like the thought.”

“If your team is having problems –“

“It’s Athos’ problem,” Porthos said shortly. “And d'Artagnan won’t push him on it. Aramis and me, we’re fine with it. Aramis just has some problems of his own right now.”

Treville tapped the desk idly for a minute. “I see. And this help?”

“It’s gonna take him some time, he’ll have to go back. He’s holding together on spit and determination at the moment. He thinks it’ll work out in the end, though.” Porthos hesitated before adding, “If it’s possible to keep him in the city for a while…”

“I can’t promise it, but I’ll see what I can do,” Treville answered, running through rosters in his head. He didn’t expect to have to send them anywhere for a while. “This trouble, with Athos…”

“It won’t affect our duties,” Porthos promised.

“I’m glad to hear it, but what about you personally?” Porthos shook his head, and Treville insisted, “I’ve seen you. Things are wrong, Porthos.”

“We’re working on it,” Porthos said. “Promise. This isn’t going to beat us.”

“I hope not. Send Athos up here, please.”

“Captain…”

“Was there something else?”

Porthos hesitated for a long moment before saying “No. Nothing else, Captain.”

“Good. Then you’re dismissed. Patrol tomorrow, don’t be late.”

“Yes, Captain.”

He’d reached the door when Treville added “Porthos?”

“Captain?”

“Swimming?”

Porthos grinned. “He likes swimming.”

“Mmm. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Porthos left, leaving the door open behind him. Treville could hear the others talking, though he couldn’t make out the words; they fell silent as Porthos appeared, and a moment later Athos came up the stairs and tapped at the door.

“Come in,” Treville said, watching as Athos took exactly two steps inside. “Close the door,” he added. “And tell me what’s gone wrong between you and d'Artagnan.”

“Captain,” Athos said mildly. Treville was often surprised at how much Athos managed to fit into two syllables; this one said clearly _I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, where did you get that idea?_

“Tell me what’s gone wrong,” he repeated firmly. “I’m not as blind as you seem to think I am.”

He could see Athos trying to decide how to get out of it. “A slight disagreement over the application of his Ability,” Athos said finally, and even the fact that he’d said _Ability_ was wrong. Athos was always, always, careful and circumspect.

“Indeed? Do elaborate.”

“It’s personal.”

“It’s affecting the working of my best team. Tell me. Or should I call d'Artagnan up and ask him?”

Athos stared straight ahead, jaw working for a moment. “His shields, for some time, have been based on us.”

“Yes?”

“He did not see fit to inform us of this.”

Treville leaned back in his seat, considering. “From what I know of empath’s shields, his basing it on you would not have affected you in any way.”

“That’s not the point, Captain.”

“Not _the_ point, but _a_ point. Something to remember, I think. I understand that d'Artagnan finds the city difficult to manage, sometimes.”

“Yes,” Athos agreed, stone faced.

“I can’t imagine it,” he said reflectively. Sitting forward and shuffling through the papers on his desk, he added briskly, “If you feel this will continue to be an issue for you, I can remove him from your team. Any of the others will be happy to have him.”

Athos stared ahead again. Treville sighed – that was his last idea – before standing and rounding the desk to face him. “Athos. Explain this to me. You’ve known what he can do for a long time now. What’s changed?”

“I –“ Athos shook his head, looking down. “I had not realised how deeply he sees. When he uses us to shield he feels everything we do, as deeply as we do. It – disturbs me.”

“Do you not trust him?”

“With my life, Captain. But my feelings are mine. They should be mine alone.”

Treville considered him for a moment, wondering if he’d imagined that tone. “He won’t break, you know,” he said carefully, and Athos’ complete lack of reaction was enough to tell him he was right. “Your demons are dark, but they’re not enough to make him turn from you.”

“Because he can does not mean he should have to.”

“They’re not enough to scare him away, either. He’s made his choice, Athos, anyone can see that.”

“The best of a bad choice,” Athos agreed.

Treville scowled, turning away. It wasn’t his place to argue Athos out of his bouts of despair; a word to Aramis later would take care of that. “Sort this,” he ordered. “I’m not having my best team fall apart over something this trivial.”

“Captain,” Athos drawled, turning to let himself out.

Treville counted twenty heartbeats before he slid the door open to listen, but the Inseparables were already gone.


	16. Interlude, part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you guys believe I nearly forgot to post? Couldn't do that to you, though, so I have dragged myself out of bed and here I sit coding away for you all. Enjoy. :D

Athos marched straight to the table without pausing. “d'Artagnan, may I speak with you?” d'Artagnan looked up curiously, and he added, “Not here, please.”

d'Artagnan stood obediently, following him out of the garrison. Athos led the way to his rooms in silence, aware that Aramis and Porthos were trailing half a street behind them, taking care not to catch up to them.

“Do you want them?” he murmured when they reached his rooms.

d'Artagnan shrugged. “As you like.”

“d'Artagnan…”

“It doesn’t matter, Athos. Whatever’s easier for you.” Studying him, he added, “Easier if they’re not here, I think.”

Athos nodded, gesturing him in and looking down the street. Porthos was leaning against a wall, watching them openly; Athos held his gaze for a moment before turning away, closing the door behind himself.

d'Artagnan was standing by the table, idly tracing the grain of the wood. Athos watched him for a moment, thinking. “What does it tell you?”

d'Artagnan looked up, fingers still moving. “Nothing I didn’t know already. What can I do for you, Athos?”

Athos hadn’t quite thought this far ahead; he hadn’t even been sure d'Artagnan would listen to him. “I want to – apologise,” he said haltingly.

“You don’t need – “

“Let me speak,” he said, more harshly than he meant to. d'Artagnan raised an eyebrow, leaning one hip against the table and folding his arms across his chest. Athos closed his eyes briefly, trying to pick up the thread of his thoughts.

“You think that I object to this, the shields, the depth of your knowledge, because I desire privacy,” he said finally.

“Yes,” d'Artagnan said slowly.

“It was never me I worried for.” He could see the moment d'Artagnan understood, but he went on anyway. “Aramis’ grief hurt you, badly. My demons are dark and many and they’re not for you to have to fight.”

d'Artagnan was shaking his head. “If the choice is between feeling your pain, and never feeling your joy – that’s not a choice, Athos. Your demons don’t hurt me. I’ll carry them with pride, if you’ll let me.”

“There’s little joy in my life.”

“There’s plenty of joy, you just don’t see it,” d'Artagnan contradicted him. “Tell me to and I will never deliberately sense anything from you again. But I’m not afraid of anything you might feel.”

“Aramis _hurt_ you.”

“Yes. And then I adjusted, and now he doesn’t hurt me anymore. If you hurt me, I’ll back away. But I’d rather take the risk.”

"You're a fool," Athos said half-heartedly.

"You're not the first person to say it," d'Artagnan agreed cheerfully. "But I'm a fool who knows my own mind."

"How much of your mind is your own?"

"Enough to make this decision. And you know what I've decided. The rest is in your hands."

Athos sighed. "You'll withdraw at the first sign of trouble?"

"Or at your request. Of course. I've no wish to hurt myself, Athos."

"Then do what helps you."

"Are you sure?" d'Artagnan asked, but he already looked happier. Athos nodded and d'Artagnan grinned. "Athos, thank you."

"How much of your mind _is _your own?" he asked curiously.__

__"More or less all of it. I don't retain the sense memories, just the information." Athos shook his head, and d'Artagnan smiled apologetically. "I don't remember the feeling of Aramis' grief; I only remember that he was grieving. I don't keep the feeling once it's gone, not consciously." He glanced away, towards the window. "Porthos is about to come bursting in."_ _

__"Where did he take you?"_ _

__"Court of Miracles. Flea's got an empath living there, she's helping me form better shields."_ _

__"Good," Athos murmured. d'Artagnan glanced towards the window again, and he sighed in mock annoyance. "Go and tell him I haven't killed you, for goodness sake. I'll see you in the morning, before your patrol."_ _

__d'Artagnan bowed slightly, grinning, and let himself out of the room. Athos crossed to the window, watching as Porthos grinned and tugged the boy into a hug; Aramis ruffled his hair, laughing at the obviously fake indignation. d'Artagnan pouted, straightening his hair and slapping Porthos' hand away when he tried to help._ _

__Athos smiled faintly, watching them for a moment more before turning away._ _

__

__No Musketeer Athos had ever met really enjoyed protecting the royal hunt. It was usually a lot of either standing around doing nothing while Louis 'rested', or crashing around on horseback trying to stay in position while Louis enthusiastically 'hunted'. Today was little different. d'Artagnan riding on Louis’ left – the young king had kept his promise to keep an eye on d'Artagnan, often singling him out at events like this one. Porthos and Aramis a little further out, watching the flanks; two Musketeers Athos didn't know well, new recruits, behind them and flanking Louis' manservant or valet or whatever the hell the man was, and he himself at the back, watching the trail behind them. Other Musketeers were scattered through the woods, making sure no one got too close, guarding the little encampment where the Queen, Richelieu and several other courtiers were waiting. With any luck the hunt would be finished soon; Louis had been out here for several hours now, which meant he’d probably get bored soon._ _

__A rabbit bolted, directly under one of the recruit’s horses. It danced sidewards and he shouted, trying to calm it. Spooked, the valet’s horse pulled away, and the extra movement unsettled the recruit’s animal too much; it lost its’ footing, coming down hard, rolling across the recruit as it struggled to stand._ _

__Athos caught the valet’s reins, calming his horse. Swinging out of his saddle, he passed his own reins to the valet and slipped between the horses, making for the head of the column. Aramis and Porthos passed him, heading for the two young recruits. Athos stepped out of their way, hurrying to reach Louis and d'Artagnan. Unexpected death always hit the younger Musketeer hard, and he wouldn’t have been shielding, alert for any danger to the King._ _

__Louis and d'Artagnan were both off their horses, d'Artagnan bodily preventing Louis from going back. Athos shot a quick look at him; d'Artagnan was pale, but he looked far better than Athos had been expecting. “Your Majesty,” he said, turning his attention to Louis._ _

__“What on earth is going on?” Louis demanded, trying to see past him._ _

__“A rabbit spooked the horses and one of the Musketeers has been thrown, your Majesty. Aramis and Porthos are checking on him now.” He glanced at d'Artagnan, who shook his head very slightly. “I’m afraid it didn’t look good, though.”_ _

__“Oh dear,” Louis murmured._ _

__“If you’ll allow it, Your Majesty, d'Artagnan and I will escort you back to the pavilion while Aramis and Porthos work.”_ _

__“Yes, I suppose there won’t be much to hunt now anyway,” Louis said with a sigh. “What is his name?”_ _

__“Pardon?”_ _

__“The injured Musketeer. What is his name?”_ _

__“Marcus,” d'Artagnan offered quietly. “He apprenticed to the Musketeers eight weeks ago, from Tarbes.”_ _

__Louis nodded, glancing around. “The horses?”_ _

__Athos let d'Artagnan find his and Louis’, taking Porthos’ for himself. He put d'Artagnan in front of Louis, leading the way back to the pavilion, and he followed at the rear. d'Artagnan chose a path that lead them wide around the others, too far to even get a look._ _

__They picked up a couple of extra Musketeers on the way through the trees; Athos sent two back to help Aramis and had the rest go around to call in the others. He wanted everyone out of the trees and into the clearing._ _

__Louis went to join Anne and the Cardinal; he halted after a moment, looking back. “Come along, d'Artagnan.”_ _

__“Yes, your Majesty,” d'Artagnan said obediently, following him towards the pavilion._ _

__Athos busied himself dealing with the Musketeers, sending one to arrange a cart and the others to begin striking the camp. Twenty minutes or so later, when the only thing left to do was strike the main pavilion, there was a noise in the trees and Porthos appeared, carrying a body in Musketeer blue._ _

__The cart was ready and Athos went to help lay Marcus in it. Aramis was hovering behind Porthos, twitching but carefully not touching; he glanced up as Athos joined them. “Where’s d'Artagnan?”_ _

__“In the pavilion.”_ _

__“How is he?”_ _

__Athos carefully tucked in the edge of the cape – Aramis’, he noticed. “Surprisingly unaffected.”_ _

__“That doesn’t seem right,” Porthos murmured. “He won’t have been shielding.”_ _

__“I haven’t had a chance to ask him.” He caught Aramis’ eye, tilting his head questioningly. Sudden deaths, or injuries he couldn’t help with, often left him jumpy, even when he hadn’t touched the victim._ _

__“I’m all right,” Aramis assured him, but he was still being careful not come too close to the cart._ _

__Louis approached; Anne was with him, and Aramis moved quickly to block her view. “Your Majesties.”_ _

__“Your Majesty, with your permission, we need to take him back to the garrison. There’s no need for you to return, we have enough Musketeers for the hunt to continue if you’d prefer.”_ _

__“No, no,” Louis said with a sigh. “We can’t continue now.”_ _

__“Did he have family?” Anne asked._ _

__Athos glanced at Porthos, who shook his head. d'Artagnan spoke up from behind Anne, skirting around her to join Aramis. “Mother and two brothers, one older, one younger.”_ _

__“I will arrange with Captain Treville that some form of compensation be paid to them,” Anne said._ _

__“You’re very kind,” Aramis said. Athos, across the cart from them, could see the grip he had on d'Artagnan’s arm._ _

__“Porthos, make sure their Majesties are comfortable. We’ll ride as soon as they’re ready, I’ll leave a couple of men to finish packing up.”_ _

__“Of course,” Porthos agreed, bowing stiffly. “This way, please.”_ _

__Aramis waited until they were out of earshot to turn to d'Artagnan. “Are you all right?”_ _

__“I’m fine,” d'Artagnan assured him. Aramis studied him and d'Artagnan sighed, tipping his head in an obvious invitation. Aramis took it, peeling off a glove and pressing a hand to his neck._ _

__“I’m fine,” d'Artagnan repeated._ _

__“You are fine,” Aramis murmured. “How is – forgive me, d'Artagnan, but how is that possible? You weren’t shielding.”_ _

__“No,” d'Artagnan agreed. “But we’re surrounded by Musketeers.” Aramis shook his head, and d'Artagnan frowned. “I’ve been working with them.”_ _

__“Yes. To get to know them.”_ _

__“And now I know them. I can – there’s a feeling, when they’re all together. Like the difference between the noise a crowd makes and the sound of one person. The more Musketeers, the easier it is to muffle myself in it.”_ _

__“You’re building shields on the brotherhood,” Aramis breathed._ _

__“Not shields; support. There are so many of them, Marcus was one voice in a crowd. It didn’t hurt so much. It’s not as good as shielding on people I know well, but it helps.”_ _

__Athos shook his head. When those two started getting mystical, he was usually left behind. “You’re sure you’re well?”_ _

__“Perfectly,” d'Artagnan assured him, and then sighed. “I’ll drive the cart, if it'll make you stop worrying. But I’m _fine_.” He glanced at Aramis. “You didn’t try…”_ _

__“No point,” Aramis said with a sigh. “It was too late the moment the horse went down. He landed very badly.”_ _

__“I’m sorry,” d'Artagnan murmured._ _

__“You’re sorry? I’m not the one it affects – yes, all right, doesn’t affect – that way.”_ _

__“Not that way,” d'Artagnan agreed. “But it does affect you, doesn’t it? You’re not far from empathy.”_ _

__“Far enough. You couldn’t pay me to be an empath.”_ _

__d'Artagnan started to object, but Athos shook his head, catching Porthos’ signal from across the clearing. Aramis subsided, and Athos nodded. “Good. Paris awaits. Let’s go.”_ _

__

__Porthos wasn’t usually the last one to the garrison in the mornings, but this morning Athos was heading up the stairs and the others were sitting at the table. He dropped to sit next to d'Artagnan, frowning as he realised Aramis was speaking._ _

__“What?”_ _

__“Sssh,” d'Artagnan murmured, listening intently._ _

__Porthos frowned, listening, but whatever Aramis was saying it wasn’t French or Spanish. It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t pin down why, and before he could figure it out Aramis finished with a flourish._ _

__“Better,” d'Artagnan told him._ _

__“ _Better_? What was wrong there?”_ _

__d'Artagnan only grinned, turning to Porthos. “Morning.”_ _

__“Good morning,” Porthos answered. “What’s going on?”_ _

__“Aramis is learning to pray.”_ _

__“Anything Aramis doesn’t already know about praying isn’t worth learning.”_ _

__d'Artagnan smiled. “He’s learning to pray in Gascon.”_ _

__“Why?”_ _

__“It helps me.”_ _

__“Helps you,” Porthos agreed. “Aramis isn’t – the same.”_ _

__“Aramis is sitting right here,” Aramis pointed out. Porthos made a face at him, looking back at d'Artagnan._ _

__“It might not help him,” d'Artagnan agreed. “Or it might. But it might help me.”_ _

__Porthos looked pleadingly at Aramis, who grinned cheerfully at him. “LaBarge upset d'Artagnan so much that he couldn’t concentrate to pray. If I could have led him, it might have helped.”_ _

__“All right,” Porthos said slowly, “but how is this going to help you? You don’t have his problems.”_ _

__“Hey,” d'Artagnan protested._ _

__“Truth hurts,” Porthos said, and ducked the slap without looking at him._ _

__“I don’t have his problems,” Aramis agreed, and jerked in a way that suggested d'Artagnan had kicked him._ _

__“Will you both stop calling it that,” d'Artagnan hissed, turning to Porthos with a scowl. “He doesn’t, but he does have a sense for injuries, you know that, and it’s hard for him to ignore it sometimes. This might help.”_ _

__“Or I may have simply learned another way to express my love for God,” Aramis added, spreading his arms wide._ _

__"Why d'you need to learn Gascon at all? If the point is praying, why can't you just pray?"_ _

__"The point isn't praying," d'Artagnan said. Shaking his head, he started over. "For me, the point is the ritual. Something I know so well I don't have to think about it. For Aramis, the point is distraction. Something to block whatever he's trying not to think about. That's what he's doing when he touches you while he's recovering. Something else to concentrate on."_ _

__Aramis nodded at Porthos' look. "I can pray in Latin or French or Spanish without thinking about it. Gascon shares many similarities with French, but it's not the same. I'll have to concentrate carefully on what I'm saying. And, of course, it will help d'Artagnan when he needs it."  
“It wouldn’t hurt us all to learn,” Athos said, easing down to sit next to Aramis. “It may be important sometime.”_ _

__“I’m terrible at languages,” Porthos said doubtfully._ _

__“He really is, I’ve heard him attempt Spanish,” Aramis agreed._ _

__“Oi!”_ _

__“My friend, I had no idea what you were saying, and I’m quite sure the barmaid didn’t either.”_ _

__“I got what I wanted, didn’t I?”_ _

__“Oh, I hadn’t realised you wanted a slap across the face.”_ _

__“You, hush,” Porthos ordered. “Come on, d'Artagnan, what’s the first line?”_ _

__d'Artagnan glanced at Aramis. “Salve Regina?”_ _

__“Why not, they’re all about as hard as each other.”_ _

__d'Artagnan reeled it off in about twenty heartbeats, grinning at the disgruntled look on Aramis’ face, and then turned to Porthos and Athos. “Here. First line.”_ _


	17. Interlude, part 4

“Again.”

“No, it’s enough.”

“I want to go again.”

“No. It’s enough.”

d'Artagnan blew out an angry breath. “Flora…”

“No, d'Artagnan,” she said gently. “You’ll have a splitting headache tonight as it is.”

Porthos stirred from where he was leaning against the wall. “I might know someone can do something about that.”

“If you mean a Healer, best not,” Flora told him. “Not with the work we’ve been doing.”

“He’s skilled at herbs, too.”

“Herbs are fine.”

“Flora, I’m fine,” d'Artagnan protested.

“You are now, yes. That’s not going to last. Who’s done this before?” she added over his objections. “If you’re going to trust me, d'Artagnan, trust me. It’s enough work for today. Go back to your Healer friend, get whatever remedy he has, and get some sleep.” She considered him for a moment. “You might find you dream very vividly for the next few nights. If it troubles you, have someone stay with you to wake you.”

“I can handle a few dreams, Flora,” d'Artagnan assured her.

“Yes, of course.” She smiled, patting his cheek gently. “Come and see me when you can.”

“It’s the highlight of my days,” d'Artagnan assured her solemnly.

“Oi, thanks,” Porthos protested. “C’mon. We need to catch Aramis before he goes off with his current mistress.”

“No more practicing, d'Artagnan,” Flora said warningly. d'Artagnan nodded without answering; she considered for a moment before shaking her head. “Porthos, go wait outside, please.”

“Why?” Porthos asked warily.

“Empath’s secret.” He didn’t move, and she rolled her eyes. “I’m about to prove a point, and he doesn’t want you to see it.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t break him.” Eyeing d'Artagnan, she added, “Not seriously, anyway.”

“d'Artagnan?” Porthos asked.

“I’m fine,” d'Artagnan assured him without looking away from Flora.

“I’m right outside,” he promised.

“Don’t come in until you’re called,” Flora shouted after him.

Porthos waited outside. He could hear them talking for a couple of minutes, then a shout from d'Artagnan, then only Flora’s voice, soothing and gentle. d'Artagnan was silent.

Eventually Flora called for Porthos, and he slipped back in. d'Artagnan was sitting at the table, pulled in tightly on himself, and he didn’t look up at Porthos’ entrance. “d'Artagnan?”

He twitched. “Fine.”

“Sure?”

He didn’t answer that time, and he looked at Flora. “He’ll be all right,” she assured him. “Take him home, let him sleep. Don’t question him. He’ll tell you.” d'Artagnan twitched again, and she glanced over fondly. “And bring him back in a day or two.”

“Course,” Porthos agreed. “Thank you, Flora.”

She nodded and he turned to d'Artagnan, eyeing the way he was sitting. “I going to hurt you if I touch you, d'Artagnan?”

d'Artagnan shook his head slowly. “No.”

“Sure?” Porthos had a hand on his shoulder before he could answer again, urging him to his feet. He didn’t like the lack of colour in his face.

“Porthos?” Flora said, as though she’d forgotten until now. “Your Healer friend? Don’t go to him tonight.”

“No herbs?”

“No herbs.”

d'Artagnan’s eyes were closed when Porthos looked back at him. “d'Artagnan,” he murmured.

“I’m fine,” d'Artagnan said.

“Liar. Come on, then. Let’s get you lying down, at least.”

“Enjoy your work tomorrow, d'Artagnan,” Flora said politely.

“Thank you, madame,” d'Artagnan said evenly, turning away and forcing Porthos to turn with him.

“What’s she done, d'Artagnan?” Porthos murmured as they left the Court behind.

“Nothing, just – showed me – later, Porthos.”

“Later?”

“My head’s bursting,” he whispered. “I’ll tell you later.”

It wasn’t much, but Porthos let it drop. He’d make sure d'Artagnan kept his promise.

d'Artagnan stopped suddenly outside the garrison. “Wait.”

“What?” Porthos asked patiently.

“If Aramis…go in, and make sure he’s not there, you can’t let…”

Porthos scowled, but d'Artagnan was right; Aramis wouldn’t take a second hand warning from someone he didn’t know, not if he laid eyes on d'Artagnan at the moment. “Can you stand?”

“Yes.”

Porthos made sure he was within reach of the wall before letting go, just to be sure, but d'Artagnan looked steady enough now. “If I see Athos, I’ll send him out,” he murmured.

“Thank you.”

He met Aramis first, though, and managed to occupy him for long enough for d'Artagnan to slip inside. By the time Porthos got away from Aramis, d'Artagnan was sleeping fitfully, and Porthos didn’t dare to wake him.

He wasn’t sure what he expected the next morning, but d'Artagnan was up as normal, joining them at the table. He was pale and quiet, but that wasn’t uncommon after he’d been with Flora, and neither Aramis nor Athos drew attention to it.

Porthos and d'Artagnan were on duty together, as they usually were on the day after his lessons, and Porthos drew him aside before they left. “How are you feeling?”

d'Artagnan smiled humourlessly. “Like I’ll burst if I move wrong, but that was the point.”

“The point of what?”

He hesitated. “You remember LaBarge?”

“Course I do, yeah.”

“He overwhelmed my shields without ever knowing what he was doing. Drowned me in everything he was.”

“I remember.”

He smiled again, just as humourless. “Flora knew what she was doing.”

Porthos blinked. “She did that on purpose?”

“A lesson. A painful lesson, but a lesson.”

“How is that a lesson?”

d'Artagnan grinned briefly. “She doesn’t actually mean me harm. Lot less painful from her than from someone else if I’ve overstrained. And she helped me, afterwards, soothed the worst of it away.” Catching Porthos’ look, he added, “You beat the apprentices in training. It’s only the same thing.”

“Overstrained,” Porthos said carefully. 

“That’s what we were arguing about earlier. The things Flora’s showing me, if I push too hard, do too much, I can strain my shields past holding. Like…the first day, I said _exercise after injury_ , remember? Push too hard, you do more damage. Flora thinks I’m pushing too hard.”

“Are you?” Porthos asked. d'Artagnan flushed, looking away, and Porthos grinned. “See she’s got to know you pretty quick.”

“Different for empaths,” d'Artagnan muttered.

“ ‘Spose it is. You should listen to her.”

“I do listen to her. It just –“ He shook his head. “Paris is loud and getting louder, Porthos. It’s hard not to push to make it quiet.”

“She knows what she’s doing.”

“I’m listening,” d'Artagnan promised.

“Good. Come on. Parade at the palace. You up for it?”

d'Artagnan smiled grimly. “It’s all part of the lesson.”

“Far be it from me to interfere with your teacher.” Flora clearly meant him to remember this lesson. He caught d'Artagnan’s shoulder, meeting his gaze. “Long as it’s helping, d'Artagnan. I brought you to her to help.”

He smiled tightly. “Exercise after injury. It’s bad now. It’ll be worth it in the end.”

“I hope so,” Porthos said grimly. "Come on."

 

d'Artagnan had barely made it to the table the next morning when Treville leaned over the railing. "d'Artagnan! Come on, I've got a meeting at the palace."

d'Artagnan looked at his plate with a sigh, snatching a hunk of bread. "Escorting the captain, wonderful."

"It's tough being the favourite," Porthos said mock sympathetically, tugging d'Artagnan's plate towards himself. "No point letting it go to waste," he said when d'Artagnan raised an eyebrow. "You'll hurt Serge's feelings."

"You're a very considerate man, Porthos," Aramis said approvingly.

"I've often been told."

"Gentlemen," Athos said patiently. "The meeting shouldn't take long, d'Artagnan. We'll wait for you."

d'Artagnan nodded, heading for the stables to collect two horses. At least he hadn't actually done any training yet; he was as clean and tidy as he ever was.

The ride to the palace was silent. Treville didn't bother giving d'Artagnan any specific instructions, and he fell back on his normal habits, standing just behind Treville's shoulder and paying just barely enough attention to be able to answer if his opinion was asked. The Cardinal sometimes asked in an attempt to show him up; so far, Louis' fondness for the Musketeers had outweighed any mistakes d'Artagnan had made.

When the Cardinal left d'Artagnan retreated to the door; Treville cleared his throat, gesturing him forward, and he rejoined him with a frown. "d'Artagnan," Treville said carefully, "his majesty makes it a habit to meet privately with every Musketeer at least once. I should have brought you before, but you were preparing for that mission."

"I understand you were injured," Louis agreed. "Not too serious, I hope?"

“Not too serious, your majesty. I’m mostly healed, now.”

“Good, good. Now.” He leaned forward, hands clasped in his lap. “I’m very interested in Abilities, you know.”

“I – didn’t know that, your majesty.”

“Of course, this is all academic, because if I knew that anyone had any Ability I’d be obliged to hand them over to the Church,” Louis continued.

“Of course,” d'Artagnan agreed warily.

“But I feel I should know as much about this menace as possible, and I’ve heard that you know – in theory, of course – about empathy.”

d'Artagnan glanced at Treville, who held his gaze calmly. “I – do, your majesty,” he agreed, managing with an effort not to make it a question.

“Excellent. It’s some time since I spoke with anyone who had any knowledge of empathy. Please, teach me.”

d'Artagnan looked at Treville again, completely baffled. This wasn’t the king he was used to; he didn’t even feel the same. “Captain…”

“The king asked you a question, d'Artagnan,” Treville pointed out.

d'Artagnan’s eyes narrowed. Treville was enjoying this. “Yes, of course,” he muttered, turning back to Louis.

“I believe I’ve heard the name d'Artagnan,” Louis mused. “Apart from you. Is your family well known?”

“In Gascony, your majesty, in Lupiac. Not enough to carry here.”

Treville shifted. “d'Artagnan’s father was killed in the plot to frame Athos, your majesty. Gaudet.”

“Ah, I remember,” Louis agreed. “Alexandre, yes?”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan said evenly. “My father’s name was Alexandre.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Louis murmured, and the truth behind it hit d'Artagnan harder than he was expecting. “Your name is?”

d'Artagnan had to think for a moment; he hadn’t used his first name since he’d left Gascony. “My mother called me Charles,” he offered finally.

Louis nodded, but he’d obviously caught the phrasing. “Well, d'Artagnan. Tell me about empathy.”

d'Artagnan started the way he usually did with Athos, who had trouble grasping the concepts; extremely simple analogies. Louis was following easily, though, and d'Artagnan moved to more complicated, more accurate ideas, and Louis still kept up with every bit of it. d'Artagnan did his best to keep the focus on how helpful and useful his Ability could be, rather than the price he occasionally paid, and Louis seemed content to let him direct the conversation.

“It seems a most useful talent,” Louis mused when d'Artagnan finished. “To know where your enemies are before you can see them, to know what your opponent will do in a fight. To know someone’s innocence or guilt – most useful indeed.”

“It would be, your majesty,” d'Artagnan agreed.

“And most tiring, I’d imagine,” Louis mused, almost to himself. “Always knowing what those around you feel, never any peace, never any solitude – most tiring.”

“I’d imagine so,” d'Artagnan said carefully. Treville was staring intently at the window, refusing to look at either of them.

“Well,” Louis said with a faint smile. “All Abilities have their downsides, don’t they.”

“That’s what Aramis says,” d'Artagnan agreed. “There are no Abilities in your line, your majesty?”

“Certainly not,” Louis said mildly. “Why would the Lord our God allow heathen Abilities in the line of His kings? The House of Bourbon has no Abilities and never will. To suggest otherwise is treason of the highest order.”

“Of course; my apologies. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Your majesty, we have duties to attend to,” Treville said politely.

“Of course, don’t let me detain you. d'Artagnan, I hope to speak with you again at another time.”

d'Artagnan bowed quickly. “I’m at your service, sire, always.”

“Thank you. Now, I’m told this is rather disorienting for empaths – not that you’d care, anyway.” And as he stood there, the sense of him altered, fading back to the normal distracted, almost childish king he was used to. It was startling, almost sending him staggering before he caught himself; it might not have been so bad if Flora hadn’t overstretched him two days before, but as it was he had to take a moment.

He remembered to frown politely. “I’m sorry, your majesty, what’s disorienting for empaths?”

“Nothing,” Louis said absently. “Didn’t you say you had duties, Treville?”

“Your majesty,” Treville murmured, steering d'Artagnan out with a hand on his shoulder. “You all right?” he asked as soon as the door closed.

“He wasn’t wrong, it is disorienting. How does he – he doesn’t _have_ an Ability.”

“It’s not an Ability; it’s training, as I understand it. He’s able to hold a false impression in his mind, keep it there so strongly that it’s all you see.” Treville glanced at him. “Have you ever tried to Read him?”

“Not deliberately, no.”

“You’d probably have got past it if you’d tried. You’ll be able to now, now that you know.”

d'Artagnan glanced back towards the door. “Why does he do it?”

“He was a child when he came to power. Being underestimated becomes a habit, after a while. It makes things easier, in a way.”

“If a little lonelier,” d'Artagnan murmured.

Treville didn’t answer, and d'Artagnan let the wave of protectiveness flood over him and dissipate again. “Do we actually have duties to get back to?” he asked lightly.

“We are King’s Musketeers, d'Artagnan,” Treville said firmly. “We always have duties to get back to. Come along.”

 

Guard duty at the palace was either very calm or very dangerous. Today had been calm, and d'Artagnan was glad of it. The new shields Flora were helping him learn to build made things easier, but Paris was still loud and heavy.

They were getting ready to leave, Athos already mounted and waiting for them, when a servant approached. “Cardinal Richelieu requires the Musketeer Aramis.”

“What for?” Athos demanded. The servant shrugged and Athos sighed, dismounting. “Very well, lead on.”

“My apologies, monsieur, my instructions are clear. Aramis will attend the Cardinal alone.”

“It won’t happen.”

“Athos, I can’t refuse the Cardinal,” Aramis murmured.

“The Cardinal thought you might be unwilling to face him alone, so he has allowed that the boy d'Artagnan may accompany you.”

d'Artagnan couldn’t figure out which part of that to object to first. Aramis caught his eye, shaking his head. “Wait here.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“d'Artagnan…”

“I’m coming _with_ you.”

Aramis grimaced, but he couldn’t argue it in front of the Cardinal’s man. Lowering his voice, he muttered, “You stay _silent_.” d'Artagnan nodded without meaning it, and Aramis turned to the patiently waiting servant. “Lead the way, please.”

“Athos is angry,” d'Artagnan murmured as they followed the man through the palace. “And worried.” Nothing Aramis didn’t know, but he thought it needed to be said anyway.

“Silent,” Aramis reminded him. d'Artagnan made a face at him, but he didn’t speak, wary of being banished from this meeting. Aramis was worried enough right now.

The man bowed them into the Cardinal’s office and closed the door without following them. Aramis gestured d'Artagnan to wait at the door; both had noticed the complete lack of guards in the room. Aramis took one careful step forward, looking around.

“How long do we wait?” d'Artagnan murmured. Aramis glared at him, and he lifted his hands in surrender.

Richelieu came from a side door, gaze sweeping dismissively over d'Artagnan. “Didn’t want to come alone, Aramis?”

“Athos was most insistent. How can I help you, Cardinal?”

Richelieu lowered himself heavily into his seat. d'Artagnan frowned; something was wrong about that movement, and Aramis had caught it too, judging by his sudden tenseness. “I find myself in need of medical help.”

“You have surgeons on your staff, your Eminence.”

“Butchers, all of them.” Richelieu waved vaguely. His hand trembled. Aramis was tense with the need to either help him or leave. “Normally, I’d be delighted to dance our usual dance, but I have little energy these days. Shall we move straight to the part where you realise you have no choice but to help me?”

Aramis glanced at d'Artagnan, who shrugged helplessly. He didn’t think the Cardinal had any particular interest in hurting them, but that meant less than nothing when dealing with Richelieu.

“Very well,” Aramis said, still watching him. “d'Artagnan, wait outside. Let’s give the Cardinal some privacy.”

“Aramis…”

“Privacy,” he repeated, holding d'Artagnan’s gaze.

d'Artagnan nodded slowly. “I’ll be right outside, Aramis. Raise your voice if you need me. To fetch anything for you.”

Aramis nodded, and d'Artagnan left, leaning against the doors from the outside and concentrating everything he had on the room.


	18. Interlude, part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter: Knight Takes Queen has been slightly amended; a story point I added in a revision didn't save properly and I didn't realise until I went looking for it recently.

“If that was an attempt to protect him, I already know he’s aware of your Ability.”

“It wasn’t an attempt to do anything except give you some privacy,” Aramis said steadily. He didn’t bother arguing d'Artagnan’s innocence; it didn’t matter as long as Richelieu was unaware of d'Artagnan’s own Ability. “I can call him back in if you’d rather do this with him watching.”

“I’m sure you know best how your methods work.” Richelieu was watching him closely, even though he hadn’t moved yet.

Aramis wasn’t really surprised this had happened, only that it had taken this long. In Richelieu’s mind there could only be two responses to learning of Aramis’ Ability; own him or destroy him. Allowing d'Artagnan to come, reminding Aramis that his future lay in Richelieu’s hands, it was clever, the kind of move Aramis expected from Richelieu.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he said, studying what he could see of Richelieu.

The Cardinal shrugged. “Most of it is common enough. Fever, chills, tiredness. Loss of appetite and difficulty concentrating.”

“That could be a cold, Cardinal.”

“Yes, I did say most of it.”

“And the uncommon part?”

Richelieu laid his arm on the desk, pulling up his sleeve.

Aramis grimaced. “Has anyone else in your household fallen sick?”

“No. I don’t believe this is contagious. But you can see why I’m reluctant to let it run its’ course.”

“I can,” Aramis agreed, rounding the desk and taking his arm gently. He was still wearing his gloves; until he was sure what this was, he wasn’t risking touching the man.

Richelieu let him tilt his arm back and forth, studying it with a frown. “Well?” he asked after a minute.

“The marks are unfamiliar,” Aramis admitted. “But I don’t believe it’s plague.”

“Can you heal plague?” Richelieu asked curiously.

“I’ve never tried. I’m better at injuries than illnesses.” Aramis let him go, removing both gloves and perching on the edge of the desk. “You may feel a tingle. Some do, some don’t.”

“A tingle,” Richelieu repeated.

“Like pins and needles.” He carefully took Richelieu’s arm, one hand on either side of the strange rash.

“I feel nothing,” Richelieu said after a moment.

“That’s fine,” Aramis murmured, eyes sliding closed. “It doesn’t matter.”

“What do you feel?” Richelieu urged him.

Aramis smiled faintly, catching the edge of the illness and beginning to push at it. “The illness is familiar to me; I’ve just never seen it at this stage before. Tell me, Cardinal, have you been scratched by a cat recently?”

The Cardinal very nearly ripped his arm out of Aramis’ grip; he held on grimly, determined not to let go. He wouldn’t be strong enough to do this again. “How is that relevant?”

“There’s an illness that cats carry. Some cats, anyway. Humans fall ill from a scratch or a bite. It usually heals on its’ own within a few weeks.” Opening his eyes, he nudged gently at the inflamed spots, watching them fade away.

“Is that it?” Richelieu demanded.

“Almost.” Aramis frowned, testing quickly to make sure he’d removed all traces of the illness. It was gone, but there was something… “You’ll forgive the impropriety, your Eminence,” he murmured, pressing a hand to Richelieu’s neck.

The Cardinal sat absolutely still, head held rigidly where it was. Aramis frowned, chasing the sense he was getting until he was sure; then he let go and sat back, pulling his gloves on again.

“That’s it?” Richelieu asked, studying his arm.

“The illness is cleared, your Eminence.”

Richelieu frowned. “But.”

Aramis nodded slowly. “But there is a weakness in your heart.”

“Repair it.”

“It’s not the type of thing I can repair, your Eminence. It will worsen over time and eventually it will kill you.”

Richelieu stared at him for a long moment. “Feeble Musketeer trick,” he said finally. “I suppose you will tell me I must retire from public life if I wish to live?”

“I do not lie about the things I sense,” Aramis said evenly. “I couldn’t if I wanted to. It will kill you eventually. Your job, the stresses you operate under, will make it worse, so yes, if you retire, you will live longer. But I have no advice about which option you should choose. I have done what I can to strengthen it now, but it will not hold forever.”

“Then you will return and strengthen it again.”

Aramis shook his head patiently. “It won’t work, your Eminence. There will come a point where I would have to stand by your side at all times to hold it back, and even then it would overcome me. I cannot stop what will be.”

“I suppose you think I will release you, now. In gratitude.”

“I think nothing of the sort.”

Richelieu waved impatiently at him. “Remove yourself from my desk.”

“Regrettably, Cardinal, if you want me to stand, I need d'Artagnan. Healing such as I have done with you wears me out. If I try to stand right now, you’ll have to pick me up off the floor.”

The Cardinal stared at him. “You have made yourself vulnerable to me.”

“As you so kindly pointed out, your Eminence, I have no choice. I’m not fool enough to think my years of loyal service to the Crown would mean anything next to an accusation from you.” Bitter, too bitter, he was giving too much away as exhaustion weighed on him.

Richelieu stood abruptly, rounding the desk and striding across the room. d'Artagnan all but fell in when the door was snatched open; his gaze went immediately to Aramis before refocusing on Richelieu. “Your Eminence.”

“Your brother Musketeer seems unwell. Get him out of here. I don’t need illness running through my household.”

d'Artagnan bowed, eyes bright with anger, and stepped around him. Aramis was carefully checking his gloves; another Reading, even an accidental one, even when he knew d'Artagnan was currently uninjured, would wipe him out completely.

“Aramis,” d'Artagnan murmured.

“I’m well,” Aramis assured him. “Just help me.” d'Artagnan shot a glance at Richelieu, but Aramis shook his head slightly; he didn’t care if the Cardinal saw this, he was fading too quickly.

d'Artagnan hauled him to his feet, steadying him when he swayed and ducking under his arm when he clearly couldn’t manage alone. Richelieu stayed by the door, watching in silence as they left. d'Artagnan didn’t bother bowing, too occupied with Aramis, and Aramis himself was too far gone by then.

He was vaguely aware of Athos and Porthos meeting them a couple of corridors away, hurried words from d'Artagnan and being shifted from his arms to Porthos’. After that everything hazed out.

He woke in his own quarters, some indeterminate time later. Athos was sitting by the bed, reading, and he thought d'Artagnan was lurking near the door, but he wasn’t quite focusing yet. “Athos?”

“Back with us?” Athos asked, lowering the book to study him.

“I think so. I’m hungry.” That was usually a good sign.

“Porthos is fetching something, he should be back in a moment. What happened? It’s some time since a Healing affected you this strongly.”

“He was ill.” Aramis struggled into a sitting position, leaning his head in his hands briefly. “And injured.”

“Both? How unfortunate for him. All taken care of now, I assume.”

Aramis nodded tightly. He hadn’t quite decided what to do with the knowledge he now held. Richelieu was little threat to the Musketeers as a whole, with Anne keeping him on a leash, and the knowledge didn’t benefit Aramis personally.

“How much does he know, Aramis?” Athos asked carefully.

“That I can Heal, and that d'Artagnan knows I can Heal. Nothing he didn’t know already.”

Athos glanced at d'Artagnan, but whatever he was going to say was lost as Porthos came in with a tray. There was a lot of noise for a few moments as everyone took a plate and found somewhere to sit; Aramis found himself with a plate in hand and a glass at his elbow.

“Eat first,” Athos murmured, watching him. Aramis saluted with his fork, digging in.

He ate steadily, used enough to this to know that if he indulged the way he wanted to he’d be ill. Athos and Porthos kept his plate and glass full between them, talking quietly about training and taverns and anything else they could think of. d'Artagnan was staying on the edge of the group, focused on his own empty plate, and Aramis remembered vaguely that this was the first time the Gascon had seen him so worn out after a Healing.

Eventually he finished, full and feeling more like himself. The others had long finished, chatting idly; Porthos was trying to draw d'Artagnan into the conversation, clearly aware he was uncomfortable.

“Better?” Athos asked, absently taking Aramis’ plate and stacking it with the others.

“Much, yes. I’m still tired, but not so badly.” Catching d'Artagnan’s eyes, he added, “It didn’t have anything to do with the plan for Milady. He would have called me either way.” d'Artagnan nodded and Aramis went back to chatting with Porthos, keeping one eye on d'Artagnan and grinning triumphantly when he started joining in.

Eventually Athos shifted. “Do you want company tonight, Aramis?”

“No, thank you. I just need to sleep.”

“Very well.” Athos stood; d'Artagnan picked up the tray, and Porthos grinned at Aramis before heading out. “We’ll see you in the morning then.”

“I’ll be there,” Aramis promised, shifting down the bed. He was asleep before they’d closed his door.

 

 

An unexpected mission for Porthos left Athos escorting d'Artagnan to the Court a couple of days later. No matter how often he insisted he could cross the Court on his own, the lessons with Flora left him too quiet and raw for the others to leave him alone.

d'Artagnan waved at a beggar on the edges of the Court. “Someone might stop you,” he murmured.

“Me?” Athos repeated.

d'Artagnan grinned briefly. “I have the freedom of the Court. Within limits. But they haven’t seen you in months.”

“What are your limits?” he asked curiously.

“I haven’t tested them. It didn’t seem smart.”

“How very mature of you.”

d'Artagnan rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue the point, leading Athos through the warren of paths and alleys. “Do you actually know your way around down here?” Athos asked.

d'Artagnan glanced at him. “I know how to get where I’m going.”

Flea came to meet them in one of the crowded squares, sashaying across the cobblestones. “d'Artagnan. Bringing your friends in now?”

“Athos, Flea,” d'Artagnan said politely. “Porthos couldn’t come today, Flea, and Athos doesn’t like me coming in alone.”

“Oh? Afraid we’re going to corrupt you?”

“There’s little you could show him he hasn’t already seen,” Athos told her. d'Artagnan turned to protest, and he said idly, “Who was it offered to kill me after a night in my wife’s bed?”

“I didn’t offer to kill you! I offered to kill the man who hurt her!” Athos only raised an eyebrow, and d'Artagnan snorted, turning back to Flea. “Porthos is fine, he’s just on a mission. Athos promises not to arrest anyone he might see. Or not see. He can ignore them. Stop that!”

Flea glanced past him at Athos. “More lessons, I think.”

“d'Artagnan?” Athos said carefully.

“I’m fine. Flea’s just very protective of her people. I’m fine now.” d'Artagnan shook his head briefly, but he did seem to have focused again.

“Definitely more lessons,” Athos said to Flea. “Speaking of?”

She stepped aside, gesturing widely. “Flora’s waiting, little Musketeer.”

“Thank you,” d'Artagnan muttered, stepping around her and continuing across the square.

“d'Artagnan?” Athos said under his breath.

“I’m _fine_ ,” d'Artagnan snapped. “Just don’t arrest anyone you might happen to see, all right?”

“Sadly, I seem to have left my manacles at home today,” Athos told him.

d'Artagnan stopped, and for a moment Athos thought he was really angry, until he saw the woman coming towards him. “Flora?” he murmured.

“Flora,” d'Artagnan agreed quietly. “Am I late?” he asked more loudly.

“We don’t have a schedule,” Flora pointed out. “Come with me.”

“No. Tell me why I’m not going to like it.” An instant later he grimaced. “Sorry, but it’s really obvious.”

“Conversations among empaths,” Flora said, directly to Athos. “You get used to it.”

“I’m sure I will,” Athos agreed.

Looking back at d'Artagnan, she continued, “I want you to meet someone.”

“And I’m not going to like it because…”

“Because he’s going to put a block around your mind and stop you from sensing anything.”

d'Artagnan turned on his heel to walk away; Athos caught his arm, ignoring the glare. “Let her explain,” he said quietly. “No one says you have to.”

“She thinks I have to.” 

“Then let’s hear her reasons.”

He looked back at Flora, who was watching them carefully. “You’re straining,” she said quietly. “You’re struggling now and we haven’t even done anything. You need a rest.”

“It’s not restful.”

“d'Artagnan…”

“It’s like being blind and deaf, Flora,” he said urgently.

“I know,” she agreed softly. “It won’t be for long.”

“What happens if he doesn’t?” Athos asked.

“He’ll be forced out of the city soon,” Flora said gently. “It’s too much. Even for those of us who grew up here, the city is hard; and he’s too strong, he feels too much. With the kind of shield I have in mind, we can start properly, from the bottom up.”

“It will work better?”

“Much better, and much longer.”

d'Artagnan shook his head when Athos looked at him. “Athos…”

“You trust her.”

“It’s like being blind!”

“Better than being overwhelmed the way I’ve seen you be.”

“I _hate_ it,” d'Artagnan muttered, but he was giving in; Athos could see it happen. “You can’t imagine, it’s…”

“Like being blind?”

“Like losing half of myself.”

“We will lose all of you if you don’t.”

“I’ve managed this long.”

“You can’t keep going,” Flora said quietly. “You know you can’t.”

d'Artagnan shook his head without looking at her. “It hurts, Flora.”

“I know it does. But not for long. It’ll help; I promise. It’ll make everything easier.”

d'Artagnan took a deep breath, looking at Athos. “Come with me? Stay with me.”

“Of course,” Athos agreed quickly. “If I can help.”

“You can’t, but it’ll make me feel better.”

“That’s a way to help,” Flora pointed out.

“Let’s do this before I change my mind,” d'Artagnan muttered. Flora nodded, turning to lead them away. Athos stayed just behind d'Artagnan, watching quietly as he squared his shoulders and followed.

The actual shielding was, to Athos, completely anti-climactic; Flora’s friend held d'Artagnan’s wrists loosely for a few moments, d'Artagnan tensed all over, and the man let go. “Don’t let it get that far again,” he said warningly.

d'Artagnan didn’t answer; Flora shook her head quickly at Athos’ look. “Thank you for your help.”

“Thank you,” Athos echoed, touching d'Artagnan’s shoulder to guide him back out. d'Artagnan jumped, surprised at the touch, but he allowed himself to be guided out.

Flora pressed a hand to his cheek, smiling sadly at whatever she was sensing. “Come back soon,” she told him.

d'Artagnan smiled faintly. “I’ll definitely be back soon.”

Athos shadowed him all the way out of the Court. d'Artagnan seemed all right so far, if shaken slightly.

“Are you worried?” d'Artagnan murmured as they cleared the Court and stepped back in Paris proper.

“Yes,” Athos answered, just as quietly.

“I can’t tell,” d'Artagnan muttered, raising his voice to add, “It won’t really bother me for a while. A couple of days. I can shield that long myself without its affecting me too much.”

“I think it’s affecting you already, d'Artagnan,” Athos said softly.

“Not – badly.”

“Badly enough.”

“Downsides,” d'Artagnan muttered. “This is still better than being forced out of the city.”

“I’m sorry that those are your choices.”

“Mmm. Let’s get back. I should take advantage, do some training when I can’t tell what my opponent’s going to do.”

“You’re supposed to train like that anyway.”

“Yes, but this time you’ll be sure.” d'Artagnan smiled, and if it was brittle Athos wasn’t going to point it out. “I can still beat you.”

“We’ll see.”

 

d'Artagnan went back to Flora three days later, and again two days after that, but though she worked with him on shielding techniques and calming exercises she refused to lower the barrier around his mind.

“It’s not time yet,” she told him. “If I let you go now, you’ll only hurt yourself again.”

“I’m no use to the others like this,” d'Artagnan protested. “We walked into an ambush yesterday, an ambush we could have avoided if I’d known about it.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Bruises.”

“Did you fight back?”

He frowned. “Yes, but…”

“There you are of use to them.” d'Artagnan scoffed, looking away, and she sighed. “I know this is hard. I’ve had it done to me too. I know that it hurts, that the silence is driving you mad. Only wait a little longer. Who’s with you today? Not Porthos.”

“Aramis.” The others still insisted he was accompanied, but more often than not it wasn’t Porthos by now. Flea’s guards let any of them through as long as they went directly to Flora, directly back out, and didn’t interfere with anyone else.

“Call him in,” Flora said quietly.

“Why?”

“Care instructions.”

d'Artagnan grimaced, but he went to the door, stepping back to allow Aramis in. “Aramis, Flora,” he said, waving vaguely between them.

“Not fixed yet, then,” Aramis noted. d'Artagnan flinched, turning away, staring fixedly towards the window.

“Not yet,” Flora said after a moment. d'Artagnan wondered distantly if she was glaring at Aramis. He’d have known, a week ago. “Soon. Tell me, Monsieur Aramis, have you noticed d'Artagnan become more tactile these last few days?”

“Not towards me. d'Artagnan?”

“Aramis is a Healer,” d'Artagnan told the wall in front of him, not daring to turn around. “And I’m not – right. I didn’t want to risk bringing him pain.” Aramis’ hand closed on his shoulder, and in spite of himself d'Artagnan pushed into the contact. “Aramis…”

“It’s only skin contact that works for me,” Aramis reminded him. “I’m wearing gloves. You’re safe. Does this help?”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan murmured. “It makes it easier to…”

“To?” Aramis prompted gently.

“Be sure of you. That you’re real.”

“I thought you’d been rather diligent in your hand to hand practise lately.” Aramis sounded amused. “You should have told us.”

“I didn’t want –“ d'Artagnan hesitated; Aramis’ grip tightened briefly on his shoulder. “I didn’t want to tell you,” he managed. “It’s not the kind of thing one brings to Athos. And it seemed unfair to make Porthos shoulder it all.”

“Save us from the stubbornness of Gascons,” Aramis muttered. “If I promise to be careful, will you let me help you?”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan said quickly. Walking through a world of people he couldn’t sense was increasingly like being surrounded by ghosts, and contact helped him ignore that feeling. “Please.”

“This?” His hand flexed on d'Artagnan’s shoulder again.

“Anything, as long as I can feel you.”

“I think we can manage that.” He glanced at Flora. “Are you finished, madam?”

“We’re finished for today. Three days, d'Artagnan.”

“We’re leaving Paris the day after tomorrow,” Aramis said when d'Artagnan was silent. “An important mission. Treville has tried to have d'Artagnan excused, but the king insists.”

Flora sighed. “Come just before you leave, then. How long will you be gone?”

“A week, perhaps two.”

“Come and see me as soon as you can when you get back, then.”

“It’s out of Paris,” d'Artagnan pointed out. “I’ll be fine.”

“Call it professional pride. I want to see those lovely shields I’ve been teaching you to make.”

d'Artagnan nodded quickly. “I promise.”

“Good. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow, then.”

Aramis let go of d'Artagnan as they crossed the Court, but once they were in better streets he draped an arm over d'Artagnan’s shoulder. If it was awkward for him, walking that way, he didn’t show it, though d'Artagnan’s height advantage had to make it difficult. “How long will this help for?”

“I don’t know. A while, I hope.”

“You haven’t done this before.”

“I’ve never been shielded this long. Hopefully I never will again. It’s – it feels wrong, all the time. Better like this, but…” He shrugged.

“It’ll be over soon,” Aramis offered.

d'Artagnan nodded. “Soon,” he murmured, and from him it sounded like a prayer.


	19. Interlude, part 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's all thank my beautiful beta; she came to the rescue when I couldn't get the file to load on my tablet by finding this week's chapter, copying it and emailing it to me. Thank you! <3

Back at the garrison, Aramis watched d'Artagnan practise with Porthos. Athos came to join him, frowning as he watched.

“Problem?” he asked mildly. Following Aramis’ glance at d'Artagnan, he added more seriously, “Something went wrong?”

“Not wrong, but she didn’t lift the shield; he’s to go to her on the way out of the city for our mission.”

“That’s not so far away.”

“Longer for him than for us, I think.” He looked over again as Porthos heaved d'Artagnan to his feet, and he was sure he wasn’t imagining it; d'Artagnan held on a moment longer than he should have needed. 

“He’s doing that on purpose,” Athos murmured.

“He’s not trying as hard as he could,” Aramis agreed. Pushing away from the wall, he called over “Porthos! Stop beating him up and come eat.”

“I was starting to get it,” d'Artagnan protested breathlessly, slumping onto the bench.

Aramis cheerfully pushed Porthos out of the way so that he could sit next to the Gascon, shifting to press against him, shoulder to shoulder. “Of course you were,” he agreed, feeling d'Artagnan push against him. “In another few years you might even manage to beat him.”

“Never happen,” Porthos said easily, shoving the plates towards them. Aramis glanced up, catching his eye; Porthos had noticed the way they were sitting, but he didn’t comment.

“What, not going to bet on it?” Aramis asked, rocking d'Artagnan slightly.

“I think he has the advantage.”

“You need to worry less about strength and more about speed,” Athos told him.

“Hmm. Right now I need to worry about eating something.”

Aramis stayed exactly where he was when they finished eating, and d'Artagnan didn’t seem too eager to move either. If anything, he was pressing harder as he started to doze, drifting off where he sat.

Porthos kept the conversation going, even fetching a bottle for them to drink there when Athos suggested leaving. Eventually d'Artagnan’s head slipped and he startled awake, looking around blearily.

“It’s late,” Aramis said without moving.

“Is it?” d'Artagnan grimaced, stretching. “Why are you all still here?”

Porthos reached across to ruffle his hair. “You just looked so sweet, we didn’t want to disturb you.”

“You just wanted to gloat more.”

“There’s that,” he agreed. “You right? I didn’t think I was working you that hard.”

“I’m fine,” d'Artagnan assured him.

“Get some rest,” Athos told him. “You worked hard today.”

d'Artagnan nodded, pushing away from Aramis with obvious reluctance. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good night," Aramis agreed, watching him make his way to the dorms.

"We should get him rooms out of here," Porthos noted. "Treville wouldn't mind."

"Something to think about," Athos agreed. "What are you doing, Aramis?"

Aramis hesitated. "I'm putting my hat on to leave."

"Not what I mean, and you know it."

Aramis sighed. "He wouldn't have told me, but Flora manoeuvred him into it. He's having difficulty without his Ability, and touching him helps. Contact, of any kind."

"That's why he's letting me throw him all over the garrison?" Porthos demanded.

"Contact," Aramis agreed.

"How does it help?" Athos asked.

Aramis shook his head. "He didn't seem able to explain. But it does help him." He glanced at Porthos again. "I had to promise to be very careful; he's afraid of what might happen if my skin touches his. Can you – casually – touch him a little more?"

"Do you think that will fool him?"

"It will until the day after tomorrow. And if it doesn't, he'll pretend it is."

Porthos nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

"And I?" Athos asked carefully.

"If you start touching him, he'll know something's up," Porthos pointed out. "Better leave it to us."

"If this is something he needs..."

"Give the boy his pride, Athos," Aramis said gently. "It's only another day and a bit. We'll manage. And now I am going to bed. I shall see you in the morning." Nodding briskly to them, he headed out of the garrison.

Porthos was already at the garrison when Aramis reached it the next morning, sitting across from d'Artagnan at the table. Both were cleaning weapons, and every few minutes Porthos reached across, gripping d'Artagnan's hand or wrist to demonstrate something, turning the weapons to show him whatever he was talking about.

Aramis took the tray Serge offered him with a grin, crossing to sit beside d'Artagnan. "Ready to eat?" he asked brightly, motioning with the tray at the pile of weapons on the table. "Did you empty the whole armory?" he added.

"Porthos is showing me how to clean weapons when you don't have the normal supplies," d'Artagnan offered, carefully clearing away the blades to make room.

"Always useful to learn," Aramis said approvingly. "One doesn't always know what supplies one will have to hand."

"That's what Porthos said."

" 'Cept I wasn't so posh about it. Pass the honey."

d'Artagnan suggested another round of hand to hand when they were finished eating, but Porthos shook his head. "It's not good to do the same thing every day. How're your stances? Stand up, there, get your sword."

Stances done Porthos' way, d'Artagnan swiftly learned, were even better for contact than hand to hand; Porthos physically adjusted him to whatever position he wanted him in, pushing and pulling and turning. Aramis lounged against the table, idly cleaning some of the weapons they hadn't got to, and watched the pair work.

"I know this is boring," Porthos said, an hour into it, "but good stance is at the base of everything else. Now, lunge and hold."

They stopped for lunch when Athos arrived, and immediately after they were finished Aramis declared his intent to deal with d'Artagnan's shooting stance as Porthos had his fighting stance. d'Artagnan made a token protest, Aramis overruled it, and they spent another couple of hours in contact more often than not.

"Thank you," d'Artagnan murmured as Aramis lined him up for his final shot.

"You were our apprentice," Aramis said, deliberately misunderstanding. "It reflects badly on us if you are not up to standard. Ready, Porthos," he added, and Porthos set the grain sack target swinging.

"Now, breathe, watch the swing, and shoot when you're ready." He reached to pat d'Artagnan's cheek and thought better of it at the last moment; he'd discarded his gloves long ago. "Breathe," he said again.

"Breathing."

Aramis stepped back. d'Artagnan eyed the target, grinned, and fired.

 

Treville had been expecting the knock on his door for a while. He’d taken Athos’ team off a mission they’d been working for a while, and while three of them would accept it without a murmur their fourth wouldn’t be so easily dismissed.

“Come in, d'Artagnan,” he called, signing the paperwork he was working on and setting it aside.

d'Artagnan closed the door carefully, crossing to stand in front of the desk. “Captain.”

“I took your team off the Dubois mission because of you. Because your plan was to send you undercover, and I’m not doing it.”

d'Artagnan frowned. “If I’ve given you some reason to doubt me –“

“You haven’t. Sit.” He obeyed, and Treville studied him for a moment. “I have no doubts that you could complete the mission, d'Artagnan.”

“Then why –“

Treville raised a hand and d'Artagnan fell silent. “The first time you went undercover, the regiment blamed Athos and the others. The second time you went undercover, they blamed you.”

“I was here,” d'Artagnan reminded him.

“Not after you killed Athos; you weren’t here then.” No one had come to him directly, but Porthos had reported later that he’d had more than one offer of help when the time came to ‘teach that little Gascon bastard a lesson’, and he knew Aramis had been approached as well. Treville had seriously worried for d'Artagnan’s safety, enough that he’d been glad the Cardinal was keeping him locked down. “Your plan calls for you to betray us again, just as publicly.”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan agreed. “And when it’s done you’ll tell them it was a plan all along.”

“The more often you betray them, the more they will come to think that you might actually do it. They won’t mean to think it, they’ll feel guilty for it, but once they’ve thought it it will never fade away. You use the Musketeers for your shields, yes?”

“I do,” d'Artagnan said slowly.

“That kind of distrust can’t be good for you. Unless absolutely necessary, as it was with Milady de Winter, you will not go undercover again.”

d'Artagnan was obviously thinking. Treville waited patiently. The better d'Artagnan knew someone, the better he could read them; he came close to true telepathy with the Inseparables, but he didn’t know Treville that well yet.

“That happened before,” d'Artagnan said eventually. “To another of your empaths.”

Or perhaps he did.

“The first empath who joined us,” Treville agreed. “The first couple of years after the king created the regiment, we were recruiting mostly from gaols, those accused of Abilities. But we couldn’t simply walk up and demand to see them, that would have raised suspicions. Francis was my good right hand. He deliberately cultivated a reputation for himself as a hot headed, drunken gambler.”

“The kind of man you’d expect to see in gaol.”

“The kind of man you’d expect to see in gaol,” Treville agreed. “The regiment knew the truth, of course. After all, he’d recruited most of them. But he came to me after months of this work. He said that the others were beginning to believe in the mask he wore. That they didn’t mean it, they couldn’t control it, but they were hurting him.”

“The gaols might have hurt him worse,” d'Artagnan murmured.

“Maybe,” Treville agreed. “Either way, he’s a brother in a cloistered order now.”

“I’m not going to join an order.”

“And I’m not going to have you hurt when you don’t have to be.”

“I’m the best undercover you have.”

“Perhaps I should deal with that.”

“Another empath will have the same problem.”

“Surprising as it may be, d'Artagnan, people who are not empaths are also capable of going undercover. You are currently the best I have. So I’ll save you for the important missions. This one doesn’t have to be you.” He studied d'Artagnan for a moment. “You weren’t looking forward to it.”

“I would have done it.”

“I know you would,” Treville said patiently. They needed to work on training that knee jerk defensiveness out of him. “But you won’t. My decision is final, d'Artagnan.”

Sensing the dismissal, d'Artagnan rose to his feet. “Thank you for explaining, sir.”

“I’m not convinced you wouldn’t have run off and done it just to prove you could if I hadn’t,” Treville muttered, and from d'Artagnan’s blush he knew he wasn’t far off. They’d have to work on that, too. He was far too expressive when he wasn’t paying attention. “Go on back to your training, there’ll be another mission soon enough. And tell Porthos to come up here when he’s finished with the apprentices.”

“Yes sir.” d'Artagnan let himself out, closing the door quietly.

Athos would teach him courtly manners. Aramis would teach him to seduce and charm. Porthos, who’d dragged himself out of the Court of Miracles and now served the King of France, would teach him about believing your mask so completely it became real. Athos would take over from Treville someday, unless he was called back to la Fere. And some time, hopefully years from now, d'Artagnan would succeed Athos.

But right now there was paperwork, and planning for another mission, and Porthos wouldn’t be up for some time yet. Sighing, Treville drew the layout of the target camp towards himself and began to work.

 

 

It was Aramis again who accompanied d'Artagnan to the Court just before lunch the next day. In full Musketeer uniform, ready to ride out, they drew rather more attention than normal, though no one tried to stop them or challenge them.

Flora's friend was waiting, but she made d'Artagnan practise the shields before they did anything else. "Once we're sure your own shields are holding, we'll work on getting you shielding other people," she said when she was satisfied.

"Can he do that?" Aramis asked in surprise.

"Some can, some can't. One way to find out. We'll worry about that when we know he's holding. Now, sit, d'Artagnan. And you, Aramis, don't touch him until I tell you you can."

Aramis obediently backed away and d'Artagnan sat, concentrating on holding his shield. Flora leaned over, one hand on his arm, ready to help if she could, and nodded to her friend.

For a moment it was like drowning, like the whole Court shouting at him at once. d'Artagnan pushed back against the shield, forcing it into place, filtering the input down to something he could deal with. There was Aramis, and Flora, her friend, and there was the background noise of the Court. Relaxing, he looked up to meet Aramis' eyes.

Flora let go of him, taking a step back. "You can touch him now, Aramis, if you need to."

"Do I need to?" Aramis asked.

d'Artagnan shook his head, concentrating on Aramis to draw his awareness back a little. "No, I'm all right. A little foggy. That will clear."

"Come back and see me when you get back to town," Flora reminded him. "Be well, d'Artagnan."

He kissed the back of her hand, smiling at her, letting gratitude surge through him. "Be well, Flora. Thank you," he added to her friend, bowing. The man returned the bow and he turned to Aramis. "Let's go. We have a mission to complete."


	20. Entr'acte, part 1

It was almost a holiday.

They were waiting for a man who would have documents from England. Once they had the documents, they were to make all speed back to Paris, but until he arrived there was literally nothing to do.

Athos had warned both Porthos and Aramis to rein themselves in. This was a small village, and he didn't want them drummed out because Porthos had cheated someone he shouldn't or Aramis had slept with someone off limits. d'Artagnan he wasn't worried about; the boy was mostly running around with the children, keeping them entertained with vastly exaggerated stories of battles the Musketeers had been in. There was a lake nearby; Athos had walked down with d'Artagnan on their second day and spent an hour soaking in the sun while d'Artagnan floated. Absent any need to recover quickly, d'Artagnan had been pleasantly happy and relaxed for the rest of that day. Even now, three days later, he was lighter and happier than he often was in Paris.

Athos was doing his best to stay out of the little tavern – largely, admittedly, because the drink they served didn't deserve the name. d'Artagnan had befriended Pierre, one of the farmers on the edge of the town, and quickly roped Porthos into helping to repair a fire damaged barn. Aramis and Athos found themselves helping, too; it passed the time, and it wasn't complicated work.

On the morning of their sixth day in town Athos woke in the barn. They'd completed it late the night before and Pierre had gratefully fed them and offered them lodgings overnight, rather than go back through town. Since his wine was rather better than that served at the tavern, Athos hadn't objected.

Porthos was still asleep and snoring, but the others were talking by the door. Athos lay watching for a moment, until he recognised the urgency in posture and language. Rolling to his feet, he stepped over Porthos to join them. "Something wrong?"

"I don't know," d'Artagnan said. He was looking past them, towards one of the walls; towards the village proper, Athos decided after a glance.

"What is it?" he asked patiently.

d'Artagnan tore his gaze away, focusing on Athos with an obvious effort. "Something – in the town. They're afraid."

"Who is?"

"Everyone."

Athos turned to pick up his sword, nudging Porthos sharply in the side. "Raiders?" he asked over his shoulder.

"I can't sense anything like that. And I don't think it's that kind of fear; it's not sharp. It's..." He closed his eyes, lips moving for a moment; Aramis wrapped a hand around his elbow, watching him carefully. "Dull," d'Artagnan said eventually. "And hopeless. The kind that grinds you away all the time."

"Have you any sense of what's wrong?" Athos asked, moving back into his eyeline. Behind him, Porthos silently gathered up the handful of belongings they'd brought.

d'Artagnan shook his head. "No. Grief and fear, that's all." Glancing at the door, he added, "Pierre's coming."

"Monsieurs?" Pierre called from outside. 

Athos turned enough to see the door without turning away from d'Artagnan. "Come in."

He stepped into the doorway without actually coming in. "Marc, the village headman, has asked you to return, please."

"Is there some problem?" Athos asked mildly.

"I'm sure that Marc can explain it better than I," Pierre said, looking away.

"Pierre," d'Artagnan protested.

Pierre shook his head. "Please, monsieurs. He's waiting at the tavern."

Athos glanced briefly at the others before nodding. "Of course. Thank you for your hospitality, Pierre."

"If you need to, feel free to return."

He retreated, apparently trusting them to leave without his watching to make sure. Athos turned to d'Artagnan, but he shook his head. "Nothing specific. A lot of fear, grief, guilt. Nothing I can make sense of."

"Athos!" Porthos shouted from the hay loft above.

Athos went up to join him, leaving d'Artagnan and Aramis to arm themselves and get ready. "What is it?" he asked, climbing carefully off the ladder.

"Here." Porthos waved him over to the little window set above the hay door. "Look, that's the south road out of the village, right? What's it look like they're doing to you?"

Athos studied the figures, made tiny by distance, and the work they were doing on the road. "It looks like they're building barricades," he said finally.

"Yeah. Only two reasons I know of for barricades in a place like this. So are they keeping us in or someone else out?"

"Let us hope it's the latter. We can help if the village is under attack. I'd rather not have Aramis and d'Artagnan trapped in a quarantine."

"What's going on?" Aramis called from below.

Athos sighed, heading back to the ladder. "It looks as though they're barricading the south road. And the other, we can assume."

"Barricading," Aramis repeated.

"Why?" d'Artagnan added.

"They were a little far away for me to demand an explanation. We'll go and meet this Marc. I'm sure he'll have all the answers we need."

"How well we'll like them..." Aramis murmured. Athos ignored him, waving them out of the barn and back towards the centre of the village.

 

The village was all but deserted.

The couple of people they saw hurried past in silence, refusing to make eye contact. Whitewash was daubed across a door, and every window was tightly shut. Once they heard sobbing, muffled and quickly silenced.

Porthos was watching Aramis. He was tense, but in a 'this feels wrong' way rather than the way that suggested he'd sensed pain somewhere. d'Artagnan, on the other hand, was far too jumpy. Athos was keeping a hand on his arm, because he kept wandering off or stopping to stare at nothing.

Several men were standing in a knot outside the tavern. Athos halted out of earshot, waiting for the others to draw in around him. "d'Artagnan, are you with us?"

"Yes." d'Artagnan rubbed a hand over his face. "Yes, I'm with you."

"Anything new?" Aramis asked.

"No. It's just stronger here. I'm dampening it," he added at Athos' look.

"Good. Aramis?"

"I'm fine."

"You're tense," Porthos noted neutrally.

"I don't like the way they're looking at us."

Porthos followed his gaze to the men outside the tavern. "Like we're their last hope? Yeah. Kind of setting my teeth on edge, to be honest."

Two of the men separated themselves from the others and came towards the Musketeers. Aramis swept off his hat and glared until the others followed suit; one of the men was wearing priest's robes.

"You are Musketeers, are you not?" the one in normal working clothes asked.

"We are," Athos agreed.

"I must beg your help, Monsieur..."

"Athos. Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan."

"Marc. And our priest Father Maurice."

"What is it you need help with?"

Marc glanced at Father Maurice, taking a deep breath. "There is illness in the village."

"What illness?" Aramis asked immediately.

"Father Maurice tells me it's influenza."

Porthos blew out a breath to stop himself from cursing. Influenza could wipe a village like this off the map, and the four of them along with it.

"He tells you?" Athos repeated.

"I've no experience of it myself. Never seen an outbreak."

Surprising, but not impossible. Influenza was unpredictable, which was part of what made it so deadly.

"How many ill?" Aramis asked.

"I don't have an exact number. My men are afraid to go into homes. But I know of at least three dead and perhaps twenty ill."

"Out of how many?"

"In the village? Sixty, eighty. Depending on who's here and who's up on the hills."

A third to a quarter ill already. Porthos met Athos' eyes grimly.

"We saw you barricading on the south end," he said, turning to Marc. "You've done that on both roads?"

Marc nodded. "We have river on one side and forest on the other; I don't think anyone will come in. But I can't promise no one will try to leave. My people know this forest like their own homes."

"I've spoken to all I can," Father Maurice added. "They understand the need to stay inside the village. But when things get worse..."

Athos was nodding slowly. "Can you have the ill brought together somewhere? It will be easier to tend them and may slow the spread of the illness."

"Francoise has offered the tavern. It will be crowded, but it's the biggest space we have."

"We can use the church if we need to," Father Maurice added, "but it's a much colder building. It's not designed to be heated."

"Have the men begin clearing the furniture from the taproom," Athos told them. "I need to speak with my men briefly, and then we'll help."

Marc nodded, drawing Father Maurice back towards the others. Athos waited until they were out of earshot again before turning to the others. "Aramis..."

"I know," he muttered. "No Healing."

"It's illness, anyway," d'Artagnan pointed out. "Could you Heal it?"

"Not the illness itself, probably. But I could ease the symptoms a little." Catching Athos' look, he added, "My gloves will stay firmly on at all times, I promise."

"I know that this is hard for you," Athos told him. "But if your Ability is revealed, these people will blame you for bringing the illness down on them in the first place. You have seen this happen; you know I'm right."

"I know you're right," Aramis parroted.

Athos studied him for a moment before clearly deciding that was as good as he was going to get, turning to d'Artagnan. "What about you?"

"I'm well for now. It will be some days before I'm in trouble, and hopefully by then the worst will be over."

"You'll tell me if that changes?"

"I will."

"Good. Porthos, can you get through the barricade?"

"The barricade I can't get through hasn't been built yet. But I'm risking carrying the 'fluenza out of the village."

Athos shook his head, looking at d'Artagnan. "Where is he most likely to meet people?"

d'Artagnan blinked. "There'll be shepherds, up on the hills in the south west. A couple of miles."

"Good. Find the nearest one; don't let them get too close to you. I'll write a note to Treville. Tell whoever you find that there is a large purse waiting for them on delivery. I'll make sure Treville makes good on it."

"D'you want me to come back, after?"

"You'd better. We can't cover for you forever. d'Artagnan, collect our belongings from the tavern and take them and the horses out to Pierre's. He's within the quarantine area and our rooms might be needed."

d'Artagnan nodded quickly and Athos looked at each of them, meeting their eyes. "I am not at risk," he said quietly. "So as much as you can, leave handling ill or deceased people to me. I know it's not entirely possible for you to avoid contact," he added when Aramis started to protest, "but let's be as careful as we can, yes? Aramis, help the men setting up the tavern for now. Porthos, come with me, I'll write your note. d'Artagnan, see if Pierre needs help before you come back. We may be relying on his animals soon."

"Good luck," d'Artagnan said, ostensibly to Porthos though his eyes were darting around the circle. He broke away, jogging back the way they'd come.

Porthos let Athos watch him go for a moment; then he nudged him. "Come on. Sooner I've got this note, sooner I'm back to help you lot. Let's go."

 

d'Artagnan stabled the horses and piled their belongings in a corner of the barn before going to look for Pierre. The man was quiet, but he accepted d'Artagnan’s help to take care of his lifestock.

“Pierre, where does the town get its water?” he asked as they finished up with the pigs.

“From the river, mostly. I have a well, and so do some of the other farms. Why?”

“We might need it.”

“Anything.”

d'Artagnan glanced towards the village; Aramis was getting more upset as time went by. “I have to go back to my friends. We’ll try not to disturb you when we come in, but I don’t know when that’ll be. Whenever we can persuade Aramis away from the sick.”

Pierre smiled grimly. “I wouldn’t worry. I don’t think I’ll be sleeping much. You and your friends are welcome to anything that’s in the kitchen.”

d'Artagnan hesitated, studying him. “Pierre, if you want us to just stay in the barn, as far from you as we can…”

“I’ve been in and out of the village every day this week. It’s a little late now to think of quarantine.”

“You’re a brave man,” d'Artagnan told him.

“Let me know what you need.”

He headed back in towards the village. It was still quiet and empty; he was shielding tightly, but he could sense fear and grief in the houses he was passing. He sped up without thinking about it, desperate to get back to the others.

“Pardon!”

He slowed, turning to see Father Maurice standing in the doorway of the little church. “Forgive me,” the priest added, “I don’t remember your name.”

“d'Artagnan, Father.”

“d'Artagnan, of course. My apologies.”

d'Artagnan shook his head. “We’re all a little preoccupied. How can I help you?”

“Ah. I think maybe I can help you. Step this way for just a moment.”

d'Artagnan followed him inside. The inside of the church was dim and he blinked quickly, trying to adapt.

“I’ve been trying to raise money to replace them for a while,” Father Maurice said with a sigh. “But they may be helpful now.”

“What may?” d'Artagnan asked, and then realised what he was looking at. “Oh. Are you sure, Father? They may need to be burned afterwards.”

“Then the villagers will definitely help me get new ones.”

d'Artagnan smiled faintly, nodding. “I’ll see to it. Thank you, Father.”

“Anything I can do, d'Artagnan.”

d'Artagnan slipped back out, hurrying down to the tavern. Aramis was stacking stools in a corner of the yard; he straightened wearily as d'Artagnan reached him. “Everything all right at the farm?”

“Everything all right here?” d'Artagnan asked, studying him.

“They’ve started bringing in the sick.”

d'Artagnan nodded quickly. That explained the tension in Aramis. “Father Maurice stopped me on the way back. The church here has benches rather than pews. He’s offered them to us.”

“Benches,” Aramis repeated.

“Better than leaving people on the floor, isn’t it? We’ll have to tie them together in twos, or something, but we can do that.”

“Yes. I’ll get a couple of the men to help you.” Glancing around, he lowered his voice to add “Porthos?”

d'Artagnan shook his head. “He made it out of the village, but that’s all I know. It’s too far for me to track him unless I want the whole village in my head.”

“No, of course. My apologies.”

“Come and help me with the benches. Don’t go back in there yet.”

Aramis smiled ruefully. “This won’t get better for me. Not until it’s run its’ course.”

“I know,” d'Artagnan murmured. “I’m sorry.”

Aramis shook his head, straightening. “Come along. Let’s look at these benches and see what we can do.”

 

Porthos arrived back a little before noon, letter safely left with a shepherd who’d promised to see it delivered. He set to work carrying and tying benches. Marc and another man were busy layering them with blankets, pelts and what looked suspiciously like the altar cloth from the church; as fast as they were set up, they were filled with ill villagers.

Athos drew him aside after a while. “Father Maurice has visited every house in the village, but there are three where no one answered him. I’m going to help him gain entry.”

“Want help?”

“Safer if it’s me. However…” He glanced over Porthos’ shoulder. “We will need to dispose of the bodies.”

“You want me to dig graves?”

“Talk to Aramis. Fire may be safer.”

“Aw, Athos…”

“I know it’s distasteful, but it may save lives. As him what’s best, and if it’s fire, send d'Artagnan to fetch the wood. The further he is from everyone, the better.”

“Got it. Go bust down some doors. I’ll watch the others.”

Aramis confirmed that burning was the safest way to dispose of the bodies. “I know it’s unpleasant,” he said when Porthos grimaced, “but I’m sure they would prefer this to infecting their neighbours and loved ones.”

Porthos snorted, reaching out to halt Marc as he passed them with an armload of water skins. “Marc, we have a small problem.”

“Add it to the list,” he said grimly. “What is it?”

“We need to burn the bodies to keep them from infecting anyone else. I’m sorry.”

Marc closed his eyes for a moment before nodding. “If you have to, you have to. What do you need?”

“Someone to show us where we can gather wood without risking anyone, and somewhere isolated we can do it.”

“I’ll send Christophe out to you. He can help with both of those things.”

“And d'Artagnan, if you see him,” Porthos added. “D’you want us to tell Father Maurice?”

“He’s already prayed over them, but yes, please. It may be easier for the people to take if they know a priest was there.”

“I’m sorry,” Aramis offered.

“If it saves one person, it’s worth it. I’ll send Christophe out.”

“Aramis n’I’ll be in in a couple of minutes to help,” Porthos promised. Marc nodded, heading inside. d'Artagnan appeared almost at once, and Christophe came out a moment later.

“We need a pyre,” Porthos said bluntly. “Christophe, Marc said you’d know where we can do that, and where to gather the wood without putting anyone at risk.”

“Yes, I can do that.”

“Good. Take d'Artagnan with you. Athos is helping Father Maurice, d'Artagnan, but he’ll join you when he can.”

“We’ll manage,” d'Artagnan promised, glancing at Aramis and raising an enquiring eyebrow.

Porthos shrugged. He couldn’t say how Aramis was doing, because he wasn’t sure yet. “Go on. We’ll find you.”

“Come back in a couple of hours no matter how much you’ve got done,” Aramis told him. “We need to make sure we eat regularly if we’re going to fight this off.”

“I’ll see you then,” d'Artagnan agreed, turning to follow Christophe away.

“You don’t have to go in there,” Porthos told Aramis. “There’s plenty to do around the village. No one will think anything of it.”

“I’m a healer gloves on or off, Porthos. I can’t not go in there.”

“It’s gloves on this time.”

“I know. I _know_. I’m still the best chance these people have.”

“Yeah,” Porthos muttered. It was true, or else Athos would have Aramis as far from the tavern as possible. “Well, let’s go, then. Plenty to do.”


	21. Entr'acte, part 2

Athos brought two bodies to the neat row behind the tavern, daubed whitewash on their doors, and delivered two ill adults to the tavern. Their daughter, barely six years old, trailed behind him, bewildered and scared. Athos left her in the care of the first woman he saw and went to find Marc.

“Where is this coming from?” he asked quietly. “How did it enter your village?”

Marc leaned against the nearest wall. He looked tired, Athos noted absently. “The mummers.”

“Mummers,” Athos repeated.

“Your first full day in town, a group of mummers passed through. They usually do around this time of year. They did a show for the children, they ate at the tavern, and they left before dark. Everyone who’s died was either at the show or in the tavern.”

Athos nodded, thinking quickly. If the mummers were ill enough to infect the people here, they probably haven’t got far. Hopefully when they realised what was wrong they camped somewhere to save infecting anyone else. Porthos could go and look when he could next be spared.

“Your d'Artagnan watched the show with the children,” Marc said quietly.

“Of course he did,” Athos said with a sigh. “Where is he now?”

“He went with Christophe, my son, to find wood for the pyre. They’ll be north of the village. We’ve no neighbours for miles out that way.”

Athos nodded. “I’ll check in with my men at the tavern and then go to help them.”

“Make sure you eat,” Marc told him. “I’ve two of the women cooking for everyone. Broth, mostly, but it’s something.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Most of the makeshift cots in the tavern were full. Aramis and several villagers were moving from cot to cot. Athos caught Aramis’ eye and waited until he raised both hands to show his gloves still on.

Porthos was making the rounds with a bucket of water, filling bowls and mugs by each cot. He paused beside Athos, rolling his shoulders to ease them. “You all right?”

“Fine. How are things here?”

Porthos shrugged. “ ‘Bout what you’d expect. Aramis is starting to struggle.”

“Already?” Athos grimaced. They weren’t even a day into the outbreak yet. 

“It’s a bad illness. And a lot of the sick are children.”

“I was going to go and help d'Artagnan, but perhaps I should send Aramis instead.”

“He won’t go. He won’t even take a break. Anyway, d'Artagnan’ll be back here soon. Aramis told him to come back and eat.”

“I see. Well, how can I help until then?”

“Here.” Porthos handed over the bucket. “There’s a barrel outside. Just keep doing the rounds. We’re using it as quick as it comes in.”

Athos nodded, terribly grateful that Porthos hadn’t asked him to help tend to the ill. It wasn’t his strong point, though he’d do his best if needed. Lifting the bucket, he began the endless round.

 

Christophe knew the woods, but he was all but silent as they worked. d'Artagnan didn’t mind it. The fear and grief in the village pressed against his shields even at this distance. It was going to be harder than he’d thought to maintain them.

They’d been gathering wood for a while, stacking it in a clearing on the edge of town, when Christophe straightened. “Your friend said two hours, didn’t he?”

“Has it been two?” d'Artagnan stood, looking at the pyre. It was a good start, but only a start; they wouldn’t be burning anything on it for a while yet.

“Two, more or less. I can keep working a while.”

“Can you? Thanks. I’ll come back in a while, but he’ll worry if I don’t at least check in.”

“Go ahead.” Christophe smiled briefly before heading back into the trees.

d'Artagnan went past Pierre’s on his way back to the village. Pierre was methodically picking his vegetables, packing them into baskets and crates. “Better to get it done as quickly as possible,” he said when d'Artagnan commented on it.

“Are you feeling sick?”

“Not at all, but even if I’m lucky, the village will need this. We can feed ourselves well enough, as long as everyone’s working. If too many people fall ill…” He shrugged, gesturing to a couple of packed baskets. “Can you manage those back to the village? Someone there will use them.”

“Are you leaving enough for yourself?”

“Yes, plenty. And for you boys if you’re coming back here.”

“I think we will be, but I don’t know what the plan is.”

“You just come and go as you need to. Don’t worry about me.”

d'Artagnan nodded, lifting the two baskets and starting towards town. They weren’t especially heavy, but they were awkward and cutting the wood earlier had left him tired and achy. It felt like a long walk before the village came into view.

He stopped a woman in the street, who said they were working from a stockpile and took the two baskets to add to it. She also told him that the others were in the tavern, that they were up to eight dead and just over thirty ill.

Half the town. d'Artagnan shuddered, forced his shields in tighter, and went to the tavern to find the others.

The main room was dim and smoky and far too hot; too many people in too small a space, and a fire roaring to help keep the temperature up. d'Artagnan hesitated in the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and by the time he could see Athos was standing in front of him. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. It’s just dark in here. How is everyone?”

Athos turned away from him, scanning the room. “Porthos!” Looking back at d'Artagnan, he said quietly “Aramis is having trouble. We’re going to take a break now so he can eat.”

d'Artagnan nodded quickly. “Sounds good.” He didn’t have much appetite, but he’d pretend if it would help. He was guessing Athos felt the same way.

Athos touched his arm and he blinked, realising he’d drifted away. “Sorry. What?”

“I was asking how you are.”

d'Artagnan shrugged. “I had to block everything. I can’t tell you how he’s doing.”

“I don’t need you to tell me, I can see by looking at him. I was asking about you.”

“I’m tired,” d'Artagnan admitted. “This is bad. As bad as the Chatelet was, and I can’t back out of here.” He shrugged at Athos’ look. “I’ll manage, until I can’t, and then I’ll go out into the woods or something.”

“Can we help?”

“No. I had to block you three out along with everything else. Nothing’s getting through, right now.”

“Nothing at all?” Porthos asked, joining them. He had one hand locked firmly around Aramis’ arm, but d'Artagnan couldn’t tell if he was restraining him or propping him up.

“The weight of it. I can feel it pressing on me. But nothing I can name, no.” He studied Aramis. “I’ve seen you look better.”

“I’ve felt better,” Aramis agreed. “I’m not sick,” he added when Athos started to speak.

d'Artagnan shifted, but he didn’t speak, and after a moment Porthos said “Are we going out, or what? I’m not eating in here.”

“Yes, we’re going out,” Athos said, waving them to go ahead.

Outside the sun stabbed d'Artagnan’s eyes and he paused, one hand blocking them. Athos brushed his arm as he passed, but no one waited for him; after a moment he lowered his hand, squinting as he followed the others. They were sitting just beyond the last house of the village, Aramis leaning against a tree, Porthos flat on his back beside him. Athos was watching for d'Artagnan.

“Sorry,” he murmured, hurrying to join them.

Athos shrugged, passing him a bowl – when had they got those? d'Artagnan realised uneasily that he must have missed more than he’d thought, standing outside the tavern. “Eat,” Athos murmured, tipping his head towards Aramis.

d'Artagnan sank down to sit on the ground, cross legged for lack of anything to lean against, and forced his way through the bowl of soup. Athos had water skins, too, and d'Artagnan drank most of one on his own.

“How’s the wood?” Porthos asked him when they’d finished eating.

“Cold,” d'Artagnan murmured, and then blinked. “You mean the pyre? Christophe’s still working on it.”

“Where is it?”

“At the other end of the village.” He waved vaguely in that direction. “Out towards Pierre’s.”

“Porthos and I will work on that this evening,” Athos said. “You’ll help Aramis?”

“Yes.”

“You can take him, if you want, I can manage,” Aramis said.

“Neither of you is being left alone,” Athos said firmly. “Nor Porthos and I, if we can help it, but particularly you two.”

d'Artagnan realised too late that he should have objected to that, but he couldn’t muster the irritation he knew Athos was expecting.

“d'Artagnan,” Athos said, watching him.

“I’m all right,” he said, though he was starting to think it wasn’t true.

No one pushed him; Porthos gathered the empty dishes, Athos slung the water skins over his shoulder, and they headed back towards the village. It was late afternoon now, shading towards evening; the sun hit d'Artagnan’s eyes again as they reached the tiny square and he stopped again, waiting for the spike of pain to dissolve.

“d'Artagnan?” Aramis asked. He had to be nearby, his hand was on d'Artagnan’s arm, but his voice was muffled.

“It’s just the sun. I’m fine.” He forced himself towards the tavern, tracking it by the sheer pressure on his shields.

In the shadow of the building it was a little easier to manage. At least, it was until someone opened the tavern door. The wave of pain and grief that rolled out froze d'Artagnan in place; he could barely breathe under the weight of it.

Porthos was suddenly there, in between him and the door, one hand on his shoulder.

“I can’t,” d'Artagnan said, staring past him as the door swung closed again. “I can’t, Porthos, I can’t go in there. I thought I could, I can’t, I’m sorry…”

“It’s all right,” Porthos assured him, looking over his own shoulder. “Athos went in, but soon as he comes out…”

Someone cried out inside. The door opened again and desperate, soul-destroying grief rolled out, swamping d'Artagnan. He stumbled back blindly, trying to get away from it; he was already shielding as tightly as he could, there was nothing more he could do, he needed distance. Tripping over his own feet, he went down hard, rolling over to throw up.

Porthos levered him up, dragging him away down the street. As they got a little distance d'Artagnan was able to get his feet under himself, mostly keeping up with Porthos. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“What happened?” Porthos demanded.

“Someone died. A child, I think. They were so – I can _taste_ the grief. It’s like ashes.”

“That might not be grief you’re tasting, lad.”

“What is it?” Athos shouted from behind them.

d'Artagnan groaned, folding to his knees as the noise went through his head like a knife; Porthos glanced down at him, keeping silent until Athos was closer. “Someone died?” he asked.

“A child.” Athos glanced at d'Artagnan, sighing and crouching in front of him. “d'Artagnan…”

“I’m sick,” he blurted. “I mean, I think. I think it’s starting.”

“You saw mummers our first day here?” Athos asked. d'Artagnan nodded quickly. “Marc thinks they were carrying the influenza. They’re the only strangers apart from us who have come through.” He pulled off his glove, pressing the back of his hand to d'Artagnan’s forehead. His fingers were cold.

d'Artagnan swallowed the urge to apologise. “I need to go.”

“Go,” Porthos repeated.

“Away. Out of – if I’m sick, if it’s the influenza, I won’t be able to shield, it’ll all – they’ll all be in my head and I won’t be able to get them out – I need to _go_.”

“d'Artagnan,” Athos said, gripping his shoulders firmly. “Calm down. I’ll get Aramis; he’ll help you.”

“Aramis isn’t supposed to.”

“That won’t stop him,” Porthos pointed out. “And you can’t just _go_ and expect him not to chase you. We’ll have to let him help you.”

“Me, but no one else? Not the children?” d'Artagnan flinched at the look on Athos’ face; he didn’t need his Ability to know what Athos was feeling. “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“You. But not the children,” Athos said softly. “I’ll go and get him.”

“I’m _sorry_.”

“Rest,” Athos murmured, glancing at Porthos before turning to jog back to the tavern.

“Relax,” Porthos said when d'Artagnan made a move to go after him. “He knows what you meant.”

“I can’t do it here,” d'Artagnan said suddenly.

“What?”

“He won’t be able to Heal me while I’m shielding like this. We have to go.”

“We’ll go when the others get here. Longer Aramis is out of that place the better as far as I’m concerned.” He glanced at the sky. “It’s nearly night anyway. We could head back to Pierre’s? Might be able to convince Aramis to stay overnight and watch you.”

“In case I relapse?”

“Illness is tricky for Aramis. It’s not like injury.” He glanced down the road. “Here they come. Can you walk?”

“I think, yeah.”

Porthos reached down, helping him to his feet. d'Artagnan swayed, holding tightly until he found his balance.

“We can’t do it here, he can’t let his shields down,” Porthos said as the others reached them. “Back to Pierre’s? It’s late and we all need rest.”

Aramis looked back at the tavern. “I should…”

“Get some rest, excellent idea,” Athos said over him. “You go. I’ll tell Marc that we’re leaving and catch up to you.”

d'Artagnan stumbled, entirely without meaning to; Aramis automatically reached to brace him, scowling. “I’m coming back in the morning,” he said warningly.

“The morning is fine,” Athos agreed, turning away.

Porthos wrapped an arm around d'Artagnan’s shoulders; he was far too warm for it to feel comfortable, but he didn’t dare try and shrug it off for fear of losing his balance. “Come on,” Porthos murmured. “Let’s get you lying down.”

 

They were nearly back at Pierre’s when it happened.

Such a simple mistake; Athos was watching d'Artagnan, visibly flagging despite Porthos’ help, and he stepped on a rock that rolled. Losing his balance, he caught at the nearest tree for support, missed, and fell heavily against the trunk, catching his arm at exactly the wrong angle.

He whited out for a moment and came back with Aramis crouching in front of him; Porthos and d'Artagnan were watching from some distance away. “It’s broken,” he said tightly, bracing it with his other arm.

“Yes, it is,” Aramis agreed. “Do you want help?”

“No. Just get me on my feet. I’ll manage.”

Aramis pulled his sash free from under his belt, wrapping it carefully around Athos’ chest and arm. “Ready?”

“Ye – ow!”

Aramis smiled unrepentantly, tying off the sash. “Good. Arm.”

He hauled Athos to his feet, bracing him until he caught his balance and then stepping away. “He’s all right,” he called to the others; Athos could see d'Artagnan sag in relief from here.

“It’s broken?” Porthos called.

“Yes,” Athos answered for himself, picking his way carefully back to join them. His arm ached dully, but the bandage had immobilised it enough for him to manage if he was careful.

“Should sleep when we get back,” d'Artagnan mumbled, reaching out to pat him awkwardly.

“I will,” Athos agreed. He’d only need an hour or so for an injury like this; he’d do it as soon as they got back. Porthos would watch over the others for a while.

It took them longer than he was comfortable with to get back to the farm. There was no sign of Pierre, but d'Artagnan insisted that he’d said for them to come and go as they pleased. Porthos deposited him in the barn and went to draw some water; Athos eased himself down onto a haybale, watching Aramis strip off his gloves and coat before crouching in front of d'Artagnan.

“Illness is difficult for me,” he murmured. “It doesn’t always work as well as injury.”

“I understand,” d'Artagnan assured him. “You don’t have to try, I can fight it on my own.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Aramis said briskly. Porthos came back in, and Aramis added “Drink some water and then we’ll start, all right?”

He came to examine Athos while Porthos was helping d'Artagnan drink. “I can dull that pain some,” he offered.

Athos shook his head. “It doesn’t hurt much right now, and once I sleep it’ll be fine. Save it for d'Artagnan.”

“Sure?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“At least let me help you lie down first.”

Athos agreed, letting Aramis help him settle on one of the pallets they’d used the night before. Had it only been one day ago? It felt so much longer.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured as he settled.

“None of this is your fault.”

“It hurts you and I’m sorry for it.”

Aramis patted his arm, smiling tightly. “Downside.”

“Downside,” Athos echoed.

Porthos came to give him something to drink and Aramis went to sit with d'Artagnan, murmuring gently as he began to Heal him. Athos sighed, turning to look at Porthos. “Need you to leave the village again.”

“Why?”

“The mummers. If they were sick enough to infect the village, they probably didn’t get far. Hopefully they realised what was happening and camped up to keep away from anyone. Can you take a look?”

“Tomorrow,” Porthos agreed. “Get some sleep now. We need you better, especially if I’m going out.”

Athos nodded, letting himself drift into sleep. He rose back to awareness some time later; the barn was dark but for a couple of lanterns, and his arm was fine.

He sat up, unwrapping the sash, and glanced around. Porthos’ snores echoed from somewhere out of sight; Aramis was sitting beside d'Artagnan, one hand on his arm, but he glanced up when Athos moved. “Welcome back.”

“How long?”

Aramis shrugged. “Not more than two hours, I think. There’s no bells ringing in the village.”

Athos climbed to his feet, glancing around for the bucket of water. “How is d'Artagnan?”

“I can’t bring the fever down.”

Athos splashed his face, bringing the bucket over to set it next to Aramis. “Have you been trying all the time?”

Aramis shook his head wearily. “I’m just keeping him asleep. He needs it, and he won’t get it with a fever like that.”

“You need sleep too. Let me try to keep him cool for a while.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not, Aramis.” Athos studied him for a moment. Aramis was very nearly grey, and fine tremors were running through him. All Athos’ experience said that Aramis couldn’t keep this up much longer, even if he really was only keeping d'Artagnan asleep and nothing more complicated. “Get some sleep, now, or stay here tomorrow.”

“Athos,” Aramis protested, “I have to go back to the tavern and help them.”

“Yes,” Athos agreed. “And you need to be rested to do that. Let go of d'Artagnan.”

Aramis looked down at where he was holding d'Artagnan’s arm. “He’ll wake.”

“I’ll deal with him. Let go of d'Artagnan, stand up, and go over to Porthos. Can you do that? Aramis?”

“Yes,” Aramis said eventually, though he didn’t seem too sure. “Yes, I can do that.”

“Good. Let go.”

Aramis rolled jerkily away from d'Artagnan, struggling for a moment before he managed to stand. Athos watched him limp over to Porthos, all but collapsing against him; still asleep, Porthos wrapped an arm around him, letting him settle.

d'Artagnan slept on for maybe another half an hour before starting to stir. Athos was using rags and water to cool him down, but while it helped, it wasn’t enough. d'Artagnan struggled awake only a few minutes later, staring dazedly at him for several seconds before seeming to recognise him.

“How are you feeling?” Athos murmured, dipping the cloth and draping it on his forehead. d'Artagnan groaned, pressing into the feeling. “d'Artagnan.”

“Hot,” d'Artagnan murmured. “Everything hurts.”

“I made Aramis stop,” Athos said quietly. “He couldn’t Heal you, only stop it hurting for a little time, and he was wearing himself out. I couldn’t let him keep doing that. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry,” d'Artagnan echoed dazedly. “No – s’is good. Don’t want him hurting. Where’s he?”

“Sleeping.”

“Good.” d'Artagnan reached for the cloth, pressing it against his eyes; Athos gently moved his hand, rewetting the cloth first. d'Artagnan sighed when it covered his eyes. “ ‘nks.”

“Do you think you can drink something?”

“No,” he groaned. “Sick.”

“All right,” Athos soothed him, glancing over at the others. Aramis had to be deeply asleep not to hear this, but if d'Artagnan was sick he’d drag Aramis awake without meaning to. “That’s all right. Tell me if you think you can.”

“Tired,” d'Artagnan sighed.

“Get some sleep.”

d'Artagnan shifted; Athos rewet the cloth and draped it over his eyes again. “Sleep.”

“Y’r ‘rm?” d'Artagnan managed.

“I’m fine,” Athos told him, though he was almost sure d'Artagnan was already asleep again.

It was fitful, restless sleep this time, but it was sleep of a sort. Athos kept refreshing the cloths until Porthos woke some time before dawn; then he stumbled over to lie down beside Aramis. A couple of hours would be enough for his body, however tired his mind might be. Groaning, he stretched out on the pallet and was asleep almost at once.


	22. Entr'acte, part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late, I'm on holidays and my schedule's a bit off. But hey, at least you don't have to deal with this cliffhanger for too long? ::smiles innocently::

Aramis woke a little after dawn. Porthos, familiar with his post-Healing needs, brought him water and then food and then more water. d'Artagnan woke while Aramis was still drinking and washing his face and hands, talking quietly whenever Porthos was near enough. He was keeping an eye out, but Aramis didn’t try to go near him until he’d eaten and drunk and looked at least marginally better.

“Morning,” d'Artagnan murmured as he sank down to sit next to him.

“Morning,” Aramis returned. “How are you feeling?”

“I hurt,” d'Artagnan said. “Aches all over. But I don’t feel as hot or as sick, really.”

“Good sign. Have you been drinking?”

“Yes, Porthos made sure.”

Porthos grinned cheerfully at Aramis’ look; Aramis made a face and went back to questioning d'Artagnan.

“You should rest today.”

d'Artagnan grimaced. “I’d rather stay with you. Can you help me that much?”

“It won’t last,” Aramis warned him, but he was already taking off his gloves. “How’s the town this morning?”

“It’s actually – I think a lot of people have just gone numb. Too much too quickly. It’s not so heavy now.”

He didn’t mention the other reason he might have been sensing less people, and Aramis didn’t either. Porthos didn’t bother bringing it up. He knew they were all thinking it.

Athos woke a few minutes later, grumbled about Aramis doing any Healing without telling him first, and went off to stick his head in a bucket. Porthos went about packing up what they’d need for the day. d'Artagnan wouldn’t be carrying weapons today; Porthos carefully hid them in the barn.

Actually, what was d'Artagnan going to do today? Even if most people were numb, or otherwise unfeeling, he wasn’t sure the tavern was a good idea, and he didn’t think the lad would stand up to chopping wood for the pyre. That really needed to be done today; they needed to get the bodies on it quickly.

He meant to ask Athos when he came back, but Aramis was desperate to get back to the tavern and they ran out of time somehow. When they reached the tavern, Athos vanished to start cutting wood for the pyre, Aramis vanished into the tavern, and Porthos was left looking at d'Artagnan.

“d'Artagnan,” Porthos said carefully, seeing the faraway look he never liked on d'Artagnan’s face.

d'Artagnan shook himself back into the present. “I’m all right. I was just thinking. How can I help?”

Porthos glanced at the water barrel; he could see halfway into it from here and it was at least that empty. “We’re going to need water, but it’s heavy work.”

“I’ll just do a bucket at a time,” d'Artagnan promised.

“Make sure. And shout for Aramis or me if you have to.”

“I will,” d'Artagnan promised, picking up the bucket and heading for the river.

Porthos watched him go uneasily. He didn’t like leaving him alone, but Athos had vanished and there was no way to keep Aramis and d'Artagnan in the same place right now. At least the boy was only walking along the road and back; he could hardly get into too much trouble doing that.

Aramis was crouching beside one of the cots. Porthos took in the small form under the blanket and sighed. He would be drawn to the children, of course.

He picked up a handful of rags from a pile that might once have been a dress and brought them to offer Aramis. He was praying softly; Porthos listened for a moment before shaking his head. “Pray in Gascon, Aramis. Get some distance.”

“She won’t understand Gascon.”

“This isn’t Extreme Unction, it’s intercession, she doesn’t need to understand it.” He glanced down and sighed. “And get your gloves back on. Athos will drag you out of here by the scruff if he sees that.”

“She is a child, and she is in pain.” Aramis brushed a strand of hair from her forehead; his hand shook slightly.

“You can’t stop this, you know that.”

“I can stop her pain,” he said, so softly Porthos barely heard it. “Don’t ask me to stop, Porthos.”

“You can’t do this,” Porthos said, just as softly. “There’s too many, Aramis.”

“I can help this one.”

“Why this one?”

He laughed bitterly. “She was the first one I saw.”

“I’m not letting you hurt yourself,” Porthos warned him softly. “I’m going to do a round of the room. If you haven’t moved on by the time I get back, I’m moving you on. You aren’t killing yourself here, Aramis.”

Aramis didn’t answer. Porthos grimaced, turning to continue around the room, distributing the rags at each cot. He passed Marc on much the same errand; the man looked exhausted and Porthos wondered idly if he’d slept.

Aramis had moved on to the next cot by the time Porthos came back around. Porthos let him be, keeping an eye on him to make sure he wasn’t spending too much time with any one person. Several small Healings were just as bad as, maybe worse than, one big one, but he was familiar enough with Aramis that he’d be able to catch him before it got too bad.

He was starting to think about pulling Aramis out when there was a sudden noise outside and d'Artagnan all but fell in the door. “Athos is in trouble!” he shouted; he had to pause to cough before he could continue “I think they’re going to kill him!”

 

Aramis gestured Porthos to take charge of d'Artagnan as they spilled out of the tavern; the boy was obviously sickening again, Aramis’ Healing wearing off, but he didn’t have time to do anything about it right now. Everyone left standing in the village was crowded towards the north end of the street, and while he couldn’t make out any words from here the tone was very, very angry.

“Where’s Athos?” he demanded of d'Artagnan.

d'Artagnan gestured weakly. “Right in the middle of it.”

Aramis swore, spinning and hurrying towards the mass of people. Porthos chivvied d'Artagnan along behind him, but Aramis dismissed them completely from his thoughts; Porthos would take care of d'Artagnan, his focus had to be on Athos.

Two of the men had Athos by the arms; Christophe was shouting at him, screaming. Athos was so blank he had to be worried; he didn’t show anything until he realised Aramis was coming, and then he flinched.

“What is going on here?” Aramis demanded, breaking into the little circle around Athos.

Christophe turned on him, weeping. He was clearly ill, trembling where he stood. “He has an Ability!”

“Nonsense,” Aramis said briskly. “Why would you say that?”

“I saw you. Last night. I was cutting wood when you were heading out to Pierre’s.”

 _Damn_. Aramis shook his head. “What is it you think you saw?”

“I saw him break his arm!” Christophe’s hand was shaking when he pointed at Athos. “I heard _you_ say it was broken. He’s not hurt today!”

“We were wrong,” Aramis said as calmly as he could manage. “He didn’t break anything. He just knocked it. Once we got back to Pierre’s, I looked at it, it’s fine.”

“There’s no bruise. There’s no mark! _In as much as it is given_ –“

“Stop,” Athos said before Christophe could recite the Church Law. 

“Athos, _shut up_ ,” Aramis said urgently. One of the village men caught his arm and shoulder, pinning him in place; Aramis couldn’t concentrate enough to break free, straining uselessly against the hold.

“I forced Aramis to be silent when I realised he knew,” Athos continued calmly. “He has no part in this, he’s just happened to be present.”

“Athos…”

“He had nothing to do with my Ability.”

“ _Athos_!”

Christophe was still crying, scrubbing a hand across his face. “He’s brought this down on us. _Released to the divine judgment of God_. Kill him! Save our people!”

Marc appeared, stepping past Aramis and his guard, staring at Athos. “Did you do this? Bring this illness to us?”

“I’ve done nothing but try to help you and your people,” Athos said evenly.

“But you do have an Ability.”

Athos’ gaze slid over Aramis and away. “Yes.”

d'Artagnan was howling from somewhere behind the crowd.

“Marc,” Aramis pleaded.

“They knew nothing,” Athos said firmly, watching Marc.

“This is madness!” Father Maurice protested from somewhere to Aramis’ right. Aramis couldn’t see him past his guard. “Marc, you can’t possibly…”

“Your men are innocent?” Marc said over him.

“Completely.”

“These men have saved lives!” Father Maurice again. d'Artagnan was still screaming.

Christophe said something to Marc that Aramis couldn’t hear. Marc nodded slowly, eyes on Athos.

“Marc,” Aramis said desperately. “We’ll go. We’ll wait this out in the woods somewhere. We’ll never come near this place again. Don’t do this. He hasn’t harmed anyone.”

“ _Released to the divine judgment of God_ ,” Christophe said again. “Let God judge him.”

Marc nodded. “That’s Church Law. Isn’t it, Father Maurice? Burn him.”

The words made no sense for a long moment, too long. By the time Aramis parsed them Athos had been dragged to the pyre, now stacked high and ready for the bodies. Someone tied his hands; someone else punched him in the face, hard enough to daze him. There was no stake to tie him to, since it hadn’t been designed for living people, but the bonds and dizziness together would do it.

Porthos was shouting, but he wouldn’t abandon d'Artagnan, who’d fallen eerily silent. Father Maurice was calling for calm, for time, but no one was listening. They wouldn’t _listen_. The crowd was shouting for revenge, jostling to get closer, fighting to watch Athos burn to death.

Aramis elbowed his guard, breaking his hold mechanically, without thinking about it. Drawing his pistol, he shouted for attention.

Christophe shoved a burning torch into the base of the pyre and it lit up, fire racing towards its dazed occupant.

Aramis breathed scrambled words that might have been a prayer, aimed through tear filled eyes, and fired.


	23. Entr'acte, part 4

Porthos finally managed to push his way through the crowd. d'Artagnan was doing his best to help, but between the fever, the anger even Porthos could feel around them, what he’d sensed from Athos and what he was still sensing from Aramis, he was all but unconscious. Father Maurice appeared on d'Artagnan’s other side; Porthos didn’t bother to glare, didn’t even speak, just put d'Artagnan in his arms and went to Aramis.

Aramis was standing very still in the centre of the little circle. His pistol was still aimed squarely at the pyre, though Athos wasn’t visible. Porthos devoutly hoped he’d fallen off of rather than into the pyre.

“Aramis, give me that.” Aramis’ gaze tracked towards him, but the pistol didn’t waver. “I need it,” Porthos tried again. “I’m going to get Athos and I need it.”

Aramis looked slowly down at the weapon. Porthos cursed silently. Aramis hadn’t moved this slowly since the bad days just after Savoy, when every movement seemed to take immense concentration. Porthos prayed to Aramis’ God not to let his mind drift back there.

“Give it to me,” he said again, and Aramis finally handed it over, eyes blank.

Christophe waved two of the men forwards. Porthos stopped them with a glare. “Touch him and you’re dead,” he said flatly, shoving the pistol into his belt and going around the pyre.

Athos was lying awkwardly half off the pyre. One boot was smouldering; Porthos dragged him down onto the ground, slapping his boot until it stopped smoking. Aramis’ shot had gone in just above the temple and come out on the other side. Porthos considered for a moment before pulling off his bandana and arranging it as best he could over Athos’ head.

Aramis was still standing when Porthos came back, but he went to his knees with a pained moan when Porthos laid Athos down. Behind him, d'Artagnan choked, leaning more heavily on Father Maurice.

“You happy?” Porthos demanded, looking at Marc. “Athos was trying to help you. He was trying to save your people.”

“He was flouting Church Law!” Christophe shouted back. “He deserved it!”

“You know nothing about him,” Porthos said coldly. To Marc, he added, “We’re leaving now. We’ll camp in the woods until d'Artagnan’s better, until we’re sure we don’t have this. But we’re leaving.”

Christophe shook his head. He looked one step above madness now, eyes bright with fever. “No. You probably all have Abilities. You’re not leaving.”

“Try and stop us, little boy.”

It sounded good, but if they attacked…d'Artagnan couldn’t fight, and Porthos wasn’t sure Aramis would come back from wherever his mind was right now in time to help.

“How’re you feeling right now, Marc?” he asked. “Not sick yet? Good. I hope you don’t get this. I hope you’re still standing in a couple days when the Musketeers I sent for get here. I hope you’re perfectly healthy when they try you for murdering Musketeers who put themselves at risk to help you.”

“He admitted it,” Marc snapped.

“Yeah. That makes it a Church matter, doesn’t it? And your Father Maurice here was telling you to stop. So you broke Church Law.”

“He didn’t send for anyone,” Christophe said impatiently. “He’s been in the quarantine with us, and he doesn’t know the woods well enough to get out.”

“I broke your quarantine two hours after it went up. Walked out of here on the main road. We’re Musketeers, not hired thugs.”

“I have a suggestion,” Father Maurice said abruptly. “I will lock them in the Cell. I’ll question them most carefully to determine their guilt in this matter.” He caught and held Porthos’ gaze. “Will you consent to come peacefully, monsieur?”

Porthos stared at him, thoughts racing. Every church, no matter how small, had at least one Cell designed to hold those accused of having an Ability. They were made of some kind of stone the Church claimed suppressed Abilities, though Porthos had never met anyone who’d had any trouble using their Ability in a Cell. It might even help d'Artagnan and Aramis to be away from everyone right now.

But a Cell, in this village…Porthos glanced at the crowd, decided he didn’t have much choice, and accepted as gracefully as he could. “We’ll come. Let me talk to Aramis.”

“You can’t – “ Christophe started.

“They are in my charge now,” Father Maurice said warningly. “You’ve already broken Church Law once, Christophe.”

Marc started to protest. Porthos tuned them out, kneeling beside Aramis. “Aramis? You with me?”

Aramis blinked, focusing slowly. “Porthos.”

“Yeah. Can you walk? Don’t look at Athos, Aramis, look at me.”

Aramis dragged his gaze back. “Walk?”

“To the church. Father Maurice is going out on a limb for us. I can’t manage you and Athos both, and I’m not leaving him here. So can you walk?”

“Yes. Walk, yes. Where’s d'Artagnan?”

“Father Maurice has him. Up you get, Aramis.”

Aramis stood, mostly under his own power, and he seemed steady enough, but he didn’t move until Porthos nudged him towards Father Maurice.

“I can have someone bring him,” Father Maurice offered when Porthos bent down for Athos.

“None of your people are laying another hand on him,” Porthos said flatly. “Not one of them. Let’s go.”

 

The Cell was large enough for all of them to be relatively comfortable. Of course it was, Aramis thought grimly; it had to be big enough for the accused to be questioned without being let out.

“I’m sorry,” Father Maurice said again, helping him to lay d'Artagnan down. He’d been apologising since they’d left the crowd behind. “It’s the only way I could think of. They’d have killed you.”

“It’s fine,” Porthos said, easing Athos down. He hadn’t managed to untie his hands yet and it made Athos sprawl oddly.

“You can take him down to the crypt,” Father Maurice offered. “I’ll make sure no one touches him.”

“He stays with us,” Aramis said flatly, leaning over d'Artagnan to examine him.

Father Maurice hesitated. “I have to lock the door…”

“He stays with us,” Aramis repeated without looking up.

“If they come in and find you’re not locked in here, I won’t be able to stop them…”

“Lock the door, Father,” Porthos said impatiently. “He’s staying with us.”

Aramis glanced up, finally. “A little water before you leave us, if you would? d'Artagnan’s really quite ill.”

“I’ll fetch it,” Father Maurice promised, swinging the door closed. Aramis didn’t watch him fumble with the key, turning back to d'Artagnan.

“He all right?” Porthos murmured, crouching beside them.

“Distressed more than ill, I think, but the fever isn’t helping.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing to do, now.” Aramis brushed damp hair off d'Artagnan’s forehead. “He’s not really with us, right now.”

Porthos eased back against the wall, sighing. “What happens now, Aramis?”

“Now we wait.” He shrugged, still occupied with d'Artagnan. “I wasn’t much help to you out there. I’m sorry.”

Porthos shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. We couldn’t have fought back anyway. Not with Athos and d'Artagnan.” He glanced at Aramis. “You know where you are?”

“Yes. I know where I am.”

“It’s like a shadow,” d'Artagnan mumbled.

“Hmm?” Aramis leaned over him, watching as he blinked himself awake. “What’s that?”

“Like a shadow.” d'Artagnan reached up as though to brush something away from the space between Aramis’ ear and shoulder. “It’s always there but you don’t always see it.”

“What’s always there?”

“Bodies in the snow.” Guilt and grief rushed through Aramis, as familiar as breathing, and d'Artagnan flinched. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Aramis smiled faintly, pushing away the grief and guilt with the ease of long practise. “We are all what our lives have made us.” He studied d'Artagnan for a moment. “Can you see it?” He shouldn’t have been able to, but Aramis never bet against any of his brothers.

“No. It’s like – like Cornet in the snow. Tastes like it – where are we?”

“Church. Father Maurice stepped up.”

“Church,” d'Artagnan echoed. Eyes widening, he added “Cell? Aramis, please…”

“We’re safe,” Aramis promised quickly. He’d forgotten d'Artagnan’s deep rooted fear; from what he’d gathered, the priest in Lupiac had been zealous in his drive to rid the town of Abilities. d'Artagnan would have seen people he knew were innocent imprisoned, questioned and probably killed.

“We’re safe,” Porthos agreed. “We’re just in here to keep Christophe and his guys off. We won’t be here long.”

d'Artagnan was looking past them. Aramis realised too late that he was actually looking, not drifting; he caught the boy’s chin to redirect him, but he was too slow.

“How long will he be dead?” d'Artagnan murmured.

“Not sure. A while yet.” Porthos shrugged. “We’ve not dealt with precisely this injury before.”

“He’ll wake.”

Aramis ruthlessly refused to let himself feel any fear. “Why wouldn’t he?” he said briskly. “Now let me bring your fever down. You’ll feel better.”

d'Artagnan shook his head, reaching to catch his wrist. “No.”

“No?” Aramis repeated.

“You can’t make me better enough to be able to fight. You just can’t. And you can’t make Porthos protect all of us. I’m all right.”

He immediately proved himself wrong when he had to curl around a savage burst of coughs. Father Maurice arrived just as Aramis was getting worried, passing food, water and blankets through the bars.

“Christophe’s been taken to the tavern,” he reported. “I think I’ll be able to get you out of here before too long. How’s d'Artagnan?”

“He has influenza,” Aramis said shortly. Father Maurice had done his best, but Aramis wasn’t inclined to be polite to anyone in this village and certainly not from this side of the Cell’s bars.

“Did you really send for help?” Father Maurice asked Porthos.

“Yesterday morning. With any luck the message has reached our captain. There’ll be Musketeers on the way with supplies soon.” Sooner, if Treville had Seen them, but he wasn’t going to mention that.

“Good,” Father Maurice murmured. “I have to go. They’re burning the bodies and I have to be there.”

“Don’t let us keep you,” Aramis said, leaning over d'Artagnan. He’d lost focus again, looking blindly somewhere past them.

Porthos pointedly said nothing, silence so loud it nearly deafened Aramis. He ignored it until he ran out of ways to help d'Artagnan; then he looked up with a sigh. “Yes?”

“He’s doing his best.”

“His best got Athos killed!” Aramis hissed.

“He didn’t kill Athos. He didn’t touch him. He was shouting for calm.”

Aramis was very cold suddenly. “No. He didn’t kill Athos.”

Porthos cursed. “Aramis, you didn’t…”

“Of course I did.”

“You did _right_. I’d’ve done it, I’d been close enough.”

“Athos is dead at my hands. What about this is right?”

“You spared him a lot of pain.”

Aramis shook his head; he had to force the words past the lump in his throat. “What if this is it? He’s never – what if this injury is –“

“If it is,” Porthos said firmly, “you still did the right thing.”

d'Artagnan stirred, plucking at his blanket for a moment before he realised what it was. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Porthos said. “We’re just talking. Go back to sleep.”

d'Artagnan shook his head absently. “Aramis…”

“Go back to sleep,” Aramis echoed.

“Why are you afraid? Aramis, what’s – why is –“

“Breathe,” Aramis said warningly. d'Artagnan was struggling to sit up and Aramis got an arm under his shoulder to help. “Breathe,” he said again. “It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not, you’re so – why, what’s wrong?”

“It’s just Aramis and his Downside theory again,” Porthos told him. “Don’t pay any attention.”

d'Artagnan stared at him, still breathing too quickly. “What’s the downside to Athos’ Ability?” Porthos shook his head and d'Artagnan turned to Aramis. “What’s the downside?”

“d'Artagnan, you need to rest.”

“Why are you _afraid_?” d'Artagnan’s voice was rising. “He’s going to wake up! He always wakes up!”

“d'Artagnan, _quiet_ ,” Porthos hissed. “Someone will hear you.”

“He _wakes_ ,” d'Artagnan said fiercely, and then bent double with a coughing fit that left him gasping and choking.

Porthos caught Aramis’ eye, shaking his head. Aramis made a face, turning back to d'Artagnan as he calmed.

“I am always afraid when he’s hurt,” he said softly, “because I can’t help him. Not with anything serious. I’ve tried, on occasion. It makes me ill and doesn’t help him.”

d'Artagnan stared at him. “He’ll wake,” he said softly, pleadingly.

“I have no reason to think he won’t.”

“ _Aramis_ …”

“Sleep,” Aramis murmured. “We will talk about this when you wake. I promise.”

d'Artagnan was too worn out to argue much; Aramis got him back to sleep without having to resort to his Ability. Porthos sat in silence, watching him.

“Don’t start,” Aramis warned him.

“Wasn’t going to. I was just going to say, you should get some rest too. I can sit up for a while. How is it in here?”

“It’s far enough from the tavern I don’t feel anything. I can feel d'Artagnan, though.” Aramis settled on the other side of the Cell, wrapping a blanket around himself. “Wake me if he gets any worse; I’ll have to Heal him anyway if he does.”

“Will do,” Porthos agreed. “Get some rest, Aramis.”

Aramis nodded, sighing, and let himself relax. d'Artagnan’s illness was a constant itch at the edge of his mind, but he could ignore it with a little effort. Closing his eyes, he let himself drift into a doze.

 

d'Artagnan forced himself awake, panting harshly. Athos’ death had dragged him halfway to the dark place and he could still feel it hovering when he closed his eyes.

Porthos touched his shoulder; d'Artagnan reached up to grip his hand, trying desperately to calm himself down. “Breathe,” Porthos coached him. “You’re fine; everything’s fine.”

“Water?” d'Artagnan asked when he could. Porthos hooked the water skin without letting go of him, helping him to sit up and drink.

“How’re you feeling?” Porthos asked when he pushed the skin away.

“Tired. Hot. Sore.” d'Artagnan rubbed a hand over his face. “Why is Aramis afraid?”

“Should talk to Aramis about that.”

“ _Porthos._ Please, it’s – I can’t separate it if I don’t understand it. I _need_ you two, I need shields, I can’t…”

“Breathe,” Porthos said warningly, dragging him up and propping him against his own chest. d'Artagnan closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing, trying to match the steady rhythm against his back. The dark place was pulling at him, trying to drag him back down, and it took everything he had to resist it.

“Aramis has that Downside theory,” Porthos said after a few minutes. d'Artagnan kept his eyes closed, concentrating on the rumble he could feel through his back, focusing on the conversation itself as a barrier against that dark place. “He thinks that every Ability has a Downside.”

“You think that?”

“This’s about him, not me. His is feeling all that pain even when he can’t do anything about it; he says it doesn’t hurt him, but I know it upsets him. Yours, well, we don’t have to talk about that – I can go anywhere I want, ‘long as I don’t mind being a ghost, ignored, not really there.”

“And Athos?”

Porthos sighed. “We don’t know for sure how Athos’ Ability works. Aramis has two theories. One is, he can Heal a certain number of times and that’s it. So every time something happens, Aramis is afraid he won’t Heal this time. Especially an injury like this; even if he was someone else, Aramis couldn’t’ve helped.”

d'Artagnan shuddered at the thought. “The other?”

“The other is he’ll keep Healing forever. Long after we’re gone.”

d'Artagnan thought about that for just a moment before pushing the thought away. “But he doesn’t know.”

“No. He doesn’t know. Athos doesn’t, either, but it doesn’t scare him. Least, the first one doesn’t scare him.”

d'Artagnan shuddered again. “Maybe he’ll live to old age and then die. We don’t know.”

“We don’t know,” Porthos agreed. “And if he dies proper today because Aramis didn’t want him to burn, I think Athos’d be happy enough with that.”

“Is that why Aramis feels so guilty? I thought – it feels like Savoy in his head.”

“Yeah. That’s why he’s guilty. Can’t accept that a shot to the head’s better than burning alive any day.”

d'Artagnan reached for the water skin, taking several more sips. “How long have we been here?”

“Hard to say. Half a day, maybe. How’re you doing? I can’t imagine somewhere like this is easy for you.”

d'Artagnan shook his head. “Normally, no, but this one – no one’s been really afraid in here for a long time. I don’t think we’re the first people Father Maurice has protected like this.” He brushed a hand over the floor, letting himself skim back until the traces grew too weak to follow. Six months at least; he could go further back if he knew the person who’d left the trace, but six months was enough for him. Six months, and no real fear. No terror.

“You ever known one of these Cells to work?” Porthos asked absently.

“Yes,” d'Artagnan said distantly. “I’ve known one to work.” _That_ was not something he wanted to think about now, with the dark place so close he could _feel_ it.

Porthos squeezed his shoulder gently, apologetically. “You should get some sleep.”

“No!”

d'Artagnan grimaced, waiting until he was sure he wouldn’t shout again to repeat “No. No sleeping.”

“Why not?”

Aramis stirred, pulled awake by some combination of the noise and d'Artagnan’s illness. “What’s wrong?” he asked before his eyes were even open.

“He doesn’t want to sleep,” Porthos reported.

Aramis frowned, coming to touch d'Artagnan’s jaw to lift his face. “What’s wrong?”

d'Artagnan lowered his eyes, since he couldn’t actually look away. Aramis and Porthos exchanged looks over his head before Aramis said quietly “You need to rest, d'Artagnan. Your fever’s starting to rise again, I can feel it already.”

“No,” d'Artagnan insisted.

“You won’t be able to move when we need to.”

d'Artagnan thumped the floor a couple of times, trying to focus. “The place,” he managed finally.

“What place?” Aramis was still touching his throat.

“The dark place. Aramis…”

Aramis studied him. “You’re not there.”

“I’ll fall. Please – it’s there, it’s waiting, I can feel it. You promised, you gave me your word.”

“I did,” Aramis agreed. “All right. If you’re staying awake, though, you need to eat something, and you need to let me help with your pain.”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan agreed quickly. If Aramis had told him to walk on his hands he’d have done his best.

“Good.” Aramis’ fingers flexed against his throat and d'Artagnan felt energy flowing into him, pushing the dark place away a little and making it easier to concentrate.

Porthos cleared his throat; Aramis barely looked at him. “d'Artagnan will explain later. Can you get him something to eat, please?” Porthos sighed, going to obey, and Aramis muttered “You’ll have to tell him.”

“Should have anyway,” d'Artagnan mumbled. “Thank you.”

“Mmm. Eat, and tell me when the pain starts up again.”

“Will. Thank you.”


	24. Entr'acte, part 5

Porthos let it go on for a couple of hours. Aramis was keeping d'Artagnan’s pain down, but he couldn’t do anything about the fever. d'Artagnan was exhausted and barely coherent; the third time he confused Porthos with Aramis Porthos smiled blandly, patted him on the arm and dragged Aramis into a corner. They weren’t far from d'Artagnan – the Cell wasn’t big enough, they were crouched over Athos as it was – but he wasn’t in any state to pay any attention to them.

“Why are you letting this happen?” he hissed.

“I promised.”

“Make him sleep!”

“He’ll fight me if I try.” Aramis shook his head. “He won’t stay awake much longer. He just doesn’t have enough left.”

“What’s the dark place? What’s scaring him so bad?”

“He thinks it’s Hell. Or Purgatory, maybe.”

Porthos stared at him. “What?”

“It’s dark and cold and empty, and he can’t get out, and death drags him there.” Aramis glanced down at Athos with a sigh. “Normally once whoever it is is dead, d'Artagnan’s safe. But it’s not happening this time. He’s afraid to sleep because he thinks he’ll be pulled down.”

“Because it’s Athos?”

“I assume so. This is the first time d'Artagnan has been this close when Athos –“ Aramis cut himself off. “He would have been shielding on us, I suppose.”

“You think it’s Hell?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think. Only that it terrifies him and I promised to help him. And since we are currently locked in a Cell in a church, which is the _other_ thing that terrifies him…”

Porthos grimaced, nodding. “Yeah. This might not have been my best plan ever.”

“It was the only choice we had.”

“Still.”

Aramis glanced over as d'Artagnan shifted. “He won’t stay awake much longer; he just can’t do it. But I won’t force him. I promised him.”

“Yeah.” Porthos sighed. “All right.”

“You _can_ get us out of here, by the way?”

“Ain’t met a lock I couldn’t pick yet. Can’t imagine this one’s any different. You give the word, we’re out of here.”

“Good.” Aramis nodded, pushing wearily to his feet and going back to sit next to d'Artagnan.

Porthos glanced down at Athos. Dead for half a day now, he didn’t look like any other dead body Porthos had seen; Porthos was taking that as a good sign, though the wounds hadn’t started to heal yet. “Hurry and wake up,” he murmured. “We need you.”

 

d'Artagnan was drifting, had been for a while, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to stay awake much longer. Aramis was helping as much as he could, but he knew he was starting to slip, getting closer and closer to the dark place.

And then, suddenly, he wasn’t. He opened his eyes; it was like looking through a heat haze, but he could see Aramis leaning over him. “It’s gone.”

“What’s gone?” Aramis’ voice was muffled and echoing, as though d'Artagnan was under water.

“The dark place. It’s gone.”

That worried Aramis for some reason; d'Artagnan couldn’t trace the feeling to anything he recognised. “I’m glad,” Aramis said, still echoing. “Can you sleep now?”

“After he gets here.”

“After who gets here?”

“Treville.” d'Artagnan was vaguely surprised – didn’t they know he was coming? – but the feeling washed away before he really registered it.

“Treville’s coming?” Aramis said. Porthos was suddenly paying attention. d'Artagnan let himself enjoy that; it felt like a blanket wrapping around him.

“d'Artagnan, focus,” Aramis said firmly. “Treville’s coming?”

“He’s almost here.” d'Artagnan thought for a minute. “He shouldn’t be coming here. What if he gets sick?”

“If he gets sick we’ll take care of him. He’s close?”

There was noise somewhere in the church. d'Artagnan waved vaguely towards it, catching Aramis’ arm while he was distracted and levering himself up to sit. “You should be resting,” Aramis said half-heartedly, helping him.

Satisfaction from Porthos, and the Cell door creaked open just as Treville reached it. “Should you be here, sir?”

“How did you get into the village?” Aramis added.

“The men on the barricade sent for the priest.” Treville was worried about them; that was kind of nice. “What’s happened to Athos?”

“I killed him,” Aramis said tightly.

“Didn’t,” d'Artagnan said sleepily. “He’s on the way back.”

“We’ve really got to work on your sharing skills,” Porthos muttered.

“He always wakes.” He rolled his head around to look at Treville. “Captain.”

“d'Artagnan,” Treville answered, looking at Aramis.

“Influenza. Past the worst, I think, but he won’t be up and around for a while yet.”

“And you two?”

“We’re fine.”

d'Artagnan stopped paying too much attention. The tension Porthos and Aramis had been carrying all day was easing as they spoke, and though Treville was worried it had the sharpness of new worry; it wasn’t ground in and hopeless like most of the people around here.

Eventually he realised Aramis was trying to get his attention, and he dragged his eyes open again. “Tired.”

“I know.” Aramis’ voice was so hard to hear, now; d'Artagnan was mostly following his emotions. “We’re leaving. Can you walk?”

“No.” After a long moment he added “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” There was some talking over his head, and then someone helped him up and they were moving. d'Artagnan did his best to help, but after the third time they told him to stop helping he just gave up, letting them drag him. There was movement, there were Musketeers – though not too close – and then there was silence and stillness and his brothers around him.

d'Artagnan slept.

 

Athos usually woke quickly all the time, whether he’d been injured or not. Now, however, he seemed to take a long time to wake properly, lingering for a while in a sort of daze. He could hear Porthos and Aramis talking quietly, and another voice that – after a long time – he remembered was Treville’s. He couldn’t hear d'Artagnan, but no one seemed worried or upset.

Memory was slow to come back, but eventually he remembered the mission, the influenza, the accusation he hadn’t been able to talk the villagers out of. He remembered the pyre, the others shouting; he remembered –

He jerked upwards. Aramis was there, talking far too quickly for Athos to follow, firmly pressing him back down; Athos let himself be pressed, but he gripped Aramis’ arm to ground himself.

By the time he started understanding what they were saying, Aramis had stopped talking to him and started talking about him instead. “…so long, we don’t know what it might have –“

“Aramis.” His voice was thick; he swallowed several times, trying to clear it.

Aramis looked back down at him. “Awake?”

“I believe so. Water?”

“Can you sit up?”

No, Athos discovered when he tried. Porthos hauled him upright, sitting behind him to prop him up. Aramis helped him take sips of water, waiting patiently in between each.

“Where’s d'Artagnan?” Athos asked once he felt a little better.

“Sleeping. He’s doing better. Wore himself out waiting for you to wake up.”

“Wake up,” Athos echoed.

“How much d’you remember?” Porthos asked.

Athos swallowed. “I remember the fire.” Aramis twitched; Athos reached up for his wrist, holding it tightly. “Thank you, my friend.”

Aramis trembled, very slightly, but he didn’t answer, only coaxed a little more water into him. Athos let him do it; whatever was bothering him, he’d confess it eventually, and if he didn’t Porthos would.

“You’ve been dead a while,” Porthos said. Athos couldn’t read his tone at all.

“How long?”

“Most of a day.”

Longer by far than he’d ever been gone before. Athos rarely actually died; he could only remember one other example since he’d joined the Musketeers, and he’d woken after what would have been a night’s sleep that time.

Frowning suddenly, he looked around for Treville. “When did you get here, Captain?”

“Earlier today.”

“You shouldn’t be here. The influenza…”

“Someone had to come in after you, and I wasn’t going to ask one of the men to do it. Besides, I’ve only been anywhere close to you and the priest, and he seems well enough.”

“The priest,” Athos echoed.

“Tell you everything later,” Porthos promised.

“Are you hurting anywhere?” Aramis asked.

“Just tired.”

“Still?”

“Mmm.” 

There was a noise from somewhere beyond Treville. Porthos glanced up, going to crouch out of Athos’ field of vision. “Look who decided to join us. How’re you feeling?”

d'Artagnan answered, too quiet and raw for Athos to make out the words. After a minute Aramis frowned, standing to join them. Athos listened more carefully; he still couldn’t make out words, but d'Artagnan was very insistent on something.

Treville moved to crouch next to Athos. “Can you move? He wants to see you, and you’re slightly more healthy than he is.”

“How reassuring,” Athos murmured, reaching for Treville’s arm to lever himself up. Even that movement all but wore him out.

With Treville’s help, Athos got to his feet. Aramis came to help them, scowling when Athos swayed. “You should be resting.”

“So should he,” Athos replied breathlessly.

d'Artagnan was watching intently as Athos shuffled across, easing down to sit next to him. As soon as he was close enough d'Artagnan reached out, hands tangling in his sleeve.

“All right,” Athos said, startled, shifting closer so they were pressed together hip to shoulder.

“Do you remember?” d'Artagnan asked, plucking at his sleeve.

“Remember what?”

That seemed to confuse him; he looked over at Aramis, licking his lips. “Dark,” he managed.

“Between the fire and waking up, Athos,” Aramis said. “Do you remember anything?”

“I was dead. What’s to remember?” d'Artagnan shuddered, and Athos sighed. “I remember nothing. Even the fire is hazy.”

“You don’t remember,” d'Artagnan repeated.

“What is it you want me to remember?”

He shook his head sharply. “ _Not_ remember.”

“Not remember,” Athos repeated. He was totally lost in this conversation. “I remember Aramis saving me from burning,” he offered.

That was the wrong thing to say, apparently. d'Artagnan turned to bury his face in Athos’ shoulder. He was absolutely silent, but his shoulders were shaking and Athos’ shirt quickly grew damp.

“All right, lad,” Athos murmured, cupping the back of his head gently. “We’re fine.”

The others carefully pretended they couldn’t see him. Aramis brought over a water skin, retreating when d'Artagnan grew more distressed at his presence; they talked quietly by the door for a while before Treville and Porthos slipped out.

Athos hadn’t realised they were back in Pierre’s barn until now.

Eventually d'Artagnan’s grip loosened, though he didn’t make any effort to move until Athos nudged him gently. Sitting back, he meekly took the water he was given. He didn’t let go of Athos the whole time.

“What’s wrong?” Athos asked finally, when he thought d'Artagnan was steady enough.

d'Artagnan blinked. “What?”

“What’s wrong?” Athos repeated patiently.

“I’m just – glad you’re alive. Again. Still.”

“d'Artagnan was quite sure you’d wake up,” Aramis offered from where he was leaning in the doorway, half watching the yard. d'Artagnan’s grip tightened when Aramis spoke, loosening when he didn’t come any closer.

“What’s wrong?” Athos murmured.

d'Artagnan shook his head sharply. “Nothing, just – “ He shook his head again. “No, nothing.”

Athos studied him for a moment before looking across at Aramis. “A moment?”

“Mmm. You both need to rest.”

“And we will. In a moment.”

Aramis nodded, heading outside to join the others. d'Artagnan watched him go, tracking him long after he was gone from sight.

“Tell me,” Athos said quietly.

d'Artagnan was silent for a moment before hesitantly explaining, “Aramis feels guilty. Because he shot you.”

“Saved me,” Athos said automatically.

“We have told him.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Athos promised. “It’s bothering you?”

“Makes me uneasy,” d'Artagnan admitted. “I’m still – “ He gestured loosely. “Uneven.”

“I can go talk to him now.”

“No.” d'Artagnan’s grip tightened on his arm.

“All right,” Athos agreed quietly. “He did say we should rest.”

“I can do rest,” d'Artagnan agreed, grip loosening again. He shifted a little, leaning against Athos’ arm.

“You’re warm,” Athos noted.

“Aramis says I’m getting better. I’m just tired. I don’t feel sick.”

“You’ll be tired for a while. Influenza’s difficult to get over. That’s part of what makes it so dangerous.”

“It’s all right. You’ll make sure I take care,” d'Artagnan said sleepily.

“d'Artagnan,” Athos murmured, “what is it I’m not supposed to remember?”

“The dark,” d'Artagnan breathed. 

He was asleep before Athos could ask anything else.

 

Aramis glanced up as Treville stepped into the barn. “Captain. Where’s Porthos?”

“I sent him to look for these mummers. They may need help.” He glanced over at the others. d'Artagnan was leaning against Athos in a way that suggested nightmares to Treville; both men were asleep, though Athos was starting to stir. “How are they?”

“Athos seems only to be tired. d'Artagnan will need care, and rest, but I believe he’ll recover.”

“Good.”

“Captain,” Athos said softly.

“Athos. How do you feel?”

“Better, thank you. How long was I asleep?”

“Hardly any length,” Aramis offered. “Are you hungry or thirsty?”

“No, thank you. We need to talk.”

Aramis glanced at d'Artagnan. “Maybe not in front of him.”

“He’s already feeling your guilt, and we can’t get far enough away from him right now anyway, not without crashing his shields.” Athos shook his head slowly. “Do you think this isn’t what I wanted, Aramis?”

“I didn’t know you’d revive when I shot you,” Aramis said tightly.

“If I had died,” Athos said carefully, “truly died because you wanted to spare me burning alive, I would have died grateful. You spared all of us tremendous pain, Aramis. If I’m ever in a situation like that again, I hope you’ll remember. A quick death at your hands is always, always going to be better than a slow death at someone else’s. And I will never be anything but grateful to you for it.”

Treville was carefully studying the barn wall, so he wasn’t sure exactly what passed between them, but after a moment he heard Aramis leave. He hunkered beside Athos, pushing his hat back a little. “Now that he’s gone, are you thirsty?”

“Parched.” Treville smiled faintly, standing to retrieve the nearest water skin. “How much did you See?”

Treville passed him the ‘skin, considering. “I Saw the pyre. I Saw Aramis – he worked hard, didn’t he?”

“Too hard. We couldn’t make him stop.”

“Surprise me,” Treville muttered. Athos snorted agreement, stoppering the ‘skin again and passing it back. “He’ll come around?”

“What, Aramis? I think so.”

“He’s afraid you’ll really die,” d'Artagnan murmured. “Afraid you’ll never die.” He dragged his eyes open, blinking to focus on Athos. “It doesn’t scare you.”

“What comes, comes,” Athos told him. “Go back to sleep.”

“Am asleep.”

His eyes were closed again and his breathing hadn’t changed. Treville watched for a moment, shaking his head. “He actually is asleep, isn’t he.”

“He’s been coming and going for a while,” Athos agreed. “Aramis isn’t worried. Not any more than he was anyway, at least.”

“It was bad?”

“I was dead for all the worst parts, but I believe he was very ill. It didn’t help that being sick made his shields weaker, made him feel sicker, made his shields weaker…” He shrugged, careful not to jostle the boy. “You have other Musketeers?”

“Reinforcing the barricades from the other side. We brought supplies, enough for a few days. Hopefully by then the worst will be over.”

“Hopefully,” Athos echoed, eyes gone very distant.

Treville pushed back to his feet, heading for the door to keep watch over his men.

 

d'Artagnan woke.

For the first time in a while, he actually felt awake. He pressed lightly against his shields, testing. Athos and Aramis, both nearby, and the dreadful guilt Aramis had been feeling had eased. Treville, somewhere not too far away, doing something mindless and repetitive and rather enjoying it. Porthos didn’t seem to be around, but the others weren’t worried.

He pushed a little further, reaching for the village. Some people were still sick, he could tell, including one d'Artagnan recognised as Christophe. He couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry. Some people were recovering, and some hadn’t fallen ill at all. d'Artagnan wasn’t sure it was enough people to save the village, but every life saved was a joy.

“d'Artagnan?”

“Aramis,” he answered, forcing himself to sit upright.

“What were you saying?”

He frowned. “Was I saying something?”

Aramis studied him for a moment before shaking his head. “Never mind. How are you feeling?”

“Just tired. And kind of heavy all over. Not sick, though.”

“Influenza’s final gift. You’ll be tired for a while, I’m afraid.”

“How’s Athos?”

“He’s fine. He slept and now he’s fine.”

d'Artagnan tapped his arm, waiting for him to meet his eyes. “If I was on the pyre, I’d want you to shoot.”

“You and Porthos both. And I suspect Treville will tell me so soon.”

“I know it doesn’t help, but it is true.” d'Artagnan shifted slightly. “I need to go outside.”

“Need help?”

“Yes. Please.”

Athos was outside, but he carefully busied himself near the well until Aramis and d'Artagnan were finished. d'Artagnan shuffled across to sit on the well wall, pulling feebly on the rope.

Athos raised an eyebrow, and d'Artagnan shrugged. “I’ve been ill.”

“I’ve been dead.”

The dark place loomed suddenly, sense memory so strong d'Artagnan reeled back. Athos caught his outstretched hand, steadying him, and a moment later Aramis’ fingers pressed against his throat.

“No, I’m fine,” he managed, reaching up to catch Aramis’ fingers, tugging until he let go. “I’m fine.”

Athos looked at Aramis anyway. Aramis nodded slowly. “He’s fine. Tell him,” he added to d'Artagnan.

“Mmm.”

“I mean it.” He hauled up the bucket, balancing it on the wall and striding off.

Athos frowned, watching him go. “Is he angry?”

“Worried.” d'Artagnan disentangled their hands, scooping up a handful of water to splash his face.

“Worried?”

“About the dark place.”

Athos frowned again. “This is what you didn’t want me to remember.”

“What?”

“You were very anxious to know if I remembered.”

“Was I? I don’t remember that. Do you?”

“No.” Athos watched him. “You were relieved last time, too. What is it?”

d'Artagnan thought for a moment. “Aramis calls it Hell.”

“What do you call it?”

“I’ve never – just the dark place.” He smiled faintly. “It’s too cold there to be Hell.”

“But you think it’s something – else. After.”

Athos didn’t believe any of this, but at least he wasn’t trying to talk d'Artagnan out of it yet.

“I think,” d'Artagnan said carefully, “it’s somewhere people pass through. No one stays there. It’s just empty and cold and dark. It’s…nothing.”

“And you’ve seen it?” Athos murmured. “You’ve been there.”

“People pass through when they die. If I’m not paying attention, if I’m not shielding, I sometimes get dragged along. They pass through, but I don’t have anywhere to go. I’m just – stuck.”

“This happens often?”

“No. If I’m shielding, there’s no problem. Even if I’m not, sometimes, it’s all right. Thérèse Dubois didn’t drag me down.”

Athos was silent for a minute; he was starting to believe, or at least to believe it was real to d'Artagnan. “You asked if I remembered. You were glad I didn’t. Did I drag you down, d'Artagnan?”

“I think you were stuck there.” d'Artagnan kept his gaze locked on the barn. “You couldn’t go on, because you weren’t dead. You couldn’t get back until your body was ready. So you were stuck.”

“d'Artagnan.”

“I didn’t go with you. I would have, if you’d taken much longer to wake. It was dragging at me, but I didn’t fall.”

“I’m glad,” Athos murmured.

“It isn’t something I worry about. But it is something I’m aware of. Aramis keeps a watch for it.”

Athos nodded. “What do you need?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t often matter. If I need it, I’ll tell you what I need. What’s Treville _doing_?”

“Cutting firewood, I think. As a thank you for Pierre.”

“Pierre,” d'Artagnan echoed. “Where is he?”

“He’s in the tavern.” d'Artagnan glanced at him; Athos shrugged. “I haven’t allowed Aramis to leave the farm. I don’t know how anyone’s doing.”

“It’s mostly burned out, I think,” d'Artagnan said distantly. “A lot of deaths. A few people are still sick. Some are recovering and some weren’t ill at all.” He blinked, refocusing on Athos. “Christophe is still ill.”

Athos didn’t react outwardly, but d'Artagnan felt the spurt of shameful joy. “You should get back inside,” Athos said, just a hair too loudly. “Would you like some help?”

“Please. I can’t believe how tired I am. I haven’t _done_ anything.”

“It will happen for a while, I’m afraid. Don’t worry. When Porthos returns, we’ll be leaving.”

d'Artagnan nodded, concentrating on walking straight. Athos was doing most of the work, but by the time they got inside d'Artagnan was having trouble keeping his head up. He sank onto the pallet with a relieved sigh, falling asleep almost at once.


	25. Entr'acte, part 6

Porthos arrived back at the farm shortly after sunset. Treville was on guard in the yard; he didn’t blink when Porthos Faded in, only followed him towards the well.

“It was the mummers all right,” Porthos said, drawing up the bucket. “It’s about burned through them as well. Their new headman promised they’d stay away from people another week or so. I said I’d bring ‘em supplies if I could. You might want to take a step back.” He picked up the bucket, dumping it over his head. Water splashed everywhere, and it didn’t really touch the dirt caking him, but he felt better for it.

Treville took the bucket from him, hooking it back on the rope and lowering it again. “You were digging.”

“Helping to bury their dead. Didn’t seem much point in burning them now.”

“No, I suppose not.” Treville pulled the bucket back up again, letting Porthos take a drink before plunging his hands in.

“The others?”

“d'Artagnan woke for a while. He seems…” Treville considered. “More himself. He wore himself out talking to Athos and went back to sleep. The others are fine.”

“Talking to Athos’s enough to wear anyone out. D’you want me to take guard?”

“No. Aramis is going to relieve me in a while. Go eat something.” He waved towards the barn.

Porthos nodded, shaking water off his hands absently as he crossed the yard. The barn door was open a crack and he slipped inside without opening it any wider. Athos glanced up as he crossed the floor to the small area they’d colonised.

“Welcome back,” he murmured. “How are the mummers?”

Porthos shook his head, easing down to sit. d'Artagnan was fast asleep; on his other side Aramis lifted his head, mumbled something, and rolled over.

“You should change your clothes,” Athos murmured. Porthos grunted agreement, stripping to his braies without embarrassment and pulling on the spare clothes Athos tossed him from the saddlebag. He wasn’t sure any of these were his, but they’d do until his own dried.

Athos passed him a wine skin. “There’s stew.”

“More stew? Hooray.”

“Aramis cooked.”

“Even better.” He took the plate when Athos offered it to him, though, eating it mechanically. “How long’re we staying?”

“As soon as d'Artagnan can travel, we’re leaving. Treville’s going to leave some of the men to help here for a time, until the villagers get back on their feet. I’ll be happier when Aramis is far away from here.”

Porthos nodded, glancing over at Aramis. “How is he?”

“Focusing on d'Artagnan.” Athos shrugged at his look. “He says he’s fine.”

“He always says he’s fine, that’s how you know to worry.”

“We won’t be here much longer, and he won’t be going back to the village.”

“I can _hear_ you,” Aramis mumbled.

“Good,” Athos retorted.

Aramis rolled onto his back, staring upwards. “I’m fine.”

Porthos glanced at Athos, who smiled faintly. “Go to sleep, Aramis.”

“I’m supposed to relieve Treville.”

“Not yet,” Athos told him. “You have some time.”

“Oh, good,” Aramis murmured, falling back into sleep almost before the word was out.

Athos sighed, looking at Porthos. “How tired are you?”

“I could sit up a bit. What’s the plan?”

“You sleep now. I’ll relieve Treville in a couple of hours and wake you to watch in here. If one of us isn’t awake, Aramis will wake to check on d'Artagnan.”

“Yeah.” Porthos sighed. He was bone weary, but someone did need to sit up. “Yeah, all right. Guess I can sleep in the saddle or something. Wake me when you need me.”

There was room on this side of d'Artagnan. Porthos settled down, carefully not thinking of the mummers in the forest, letting himself drift into sleep.

 

Aramis was sitting beside d'Artagnan when he woke, cleaning his pistol. d'Artagnan watched for a while, until he realised the steady movements had all but lulled him back to sleep. Shaking it off, he reached for Aramis’ arm to steady himself as he sat up.

“How are you feeling?” Aramis asked, holding still as d'Artagnan steadied himself.

“Not too bad.”

“Hungry?”

“No, but I’ll eat.”

“Good man. I think it’s probably fruit.”

“Fruit’s fine.”

Aramis grinned, wandering off and coming back with a handful of apples and half a loaf of bread. “I’m not sure about the bread,” he said apologetically, smacking it against the floor a couple of times.

“I might pass, thanks,” d'Artagnan agreed, biting into one of the apples. “Although these aren’t much better,” he added indistinctly.

“Eat up, they’re good for you. And you haven’t been eating much lately.”

d'Artagnan did his best, but he had to give up an apple and a half later. Aramis put the leftovers aside and held up a hand. “May I?”

“Do you ask the others every time?” d'Artagnan asked curiously.

“The others can’t block me quite as efficiently as you can.” Aramis wrapped his fingers around d'Artagnan’s wrist, concentrating for several moments.

“Well?” d'Artagnan asked. “How am I?”

“You’ll recover,” d'Artagnan assured him. “It’s going to take some time, though.”

“So everyone keeps telling me. I’ve seen people recover from influenza. I know it takes time.”

“Knowing it and experiencing it are two different things.”

“I’ll behave.”

“Glad to hear it,” Aramis said briskly. “I’ve arranged a cart to get you back to Paris.”

“Ara –“ d'Artagnan cut himself off as Aramis’ amusement washed over him.

“If you’re good, I’ll let you ride into the garrison,” Aramis promised.

d'Artagnan nodded. “Are we riding through the village?”

“It’s the quickest way back. The road at this end means a long diversion. Why?”

“Can you ride with me? Just through the village. Pray with me?”

“If you think it’ll help.”

“It will. Thank you.”

Aramis smiled faintly, patting his arm. “We’ll be moving soon. Get some rest.”

“I just woke up.”

“And you’re tired.”

d'Artagnan scowled. “Am I that annoying?”

“Sometimes,” Aramis said airily, grinning at his look and heading out of the barn. d'Artagnan leaned against the wall, idly tracking the others – Porthos was back, he noted – until Athos came in.

“Told you I could get him to agree,” d'Artagnan said with a grin.

“I shall never doubt you again,” Athos assured him. “Let’s get you loaded up.”

Getting into the cart was enough to convince him Aramis had been right not to let him on a horse. He was able to sit up, but not much more than that; he leaned against the side of the cart, padded with his cloak, and watched as the others finished the last couple of jobs around the yard. Eventually Aramis swung up into the back of the cart with him, Porthos climbed onto the seat, and they jolted into motion.

“Ready?” Aramis asked, settling beside him and pulling out his rosary.

“Ready,” d'Artagnan agreed.

 

The journey back to Paris went slowly.

d'Artagnan spent a lot of it dozing, or wrapped in his cloak watching the countryside pass by. Athos wasn’t really worried about him. Aramis was certain he’d recover once he had some time to rest properly. Athos would be glad when he recovered. d'Artagnan was doing his best not to complain, but they could see him getting restless as the day dragged on.

Athos had been keeping an eye on Aramis. Despite d'Artagnan’s best efforts, Aramis had clearly been upset as they passed by the tavern; Athos had readied himself in case he needed to intervene to keep him in the cart, but Aramis had kept his concentration and as they drew further away from the village he’d relaxed. A full day away and with d'Artagnan firmly on the mend, Aramis was all but himself again.

Athos nudged his horse up to join Treville at the head of the group. “What excuse are we using this time?”

Treville snorted. “Your contact hit the barricades when he tried to enter the village. I received his message almost the same time as yours. Naturally, we set out straight away.”

“Naturally,” Athos agreed dryly. Depending on when Treville had Seen them, the Musketeers would have been ready to go long before the message that provided their excuse. “And did you meet the contact?”

“I sent a man. It went fine.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He was only a little sarcastic. He didn’t wish harm on his fellow Musketeers, after all.

Treville snorted again. “How are the others?”

“Aramis seems himself. d'Artagnan is either asleep or complaining. Both, on occasion.”

“We’ll be back in Paris tomorrow. He can recover at the garrison.”

“As long as everyone knows he’s not to practise until Aramis clears him.”

“Don’t worry, Athos. We’ve seen influenza before, and the men are familiar with d'Artagnan. We won’t let him wear himself out.” 

Athos nodded. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“Are you?”

“He won’t have much choice, Captain, not with us taking care of him.”

Treville smiled faintly, and Athos turned his horse to go back and join the others.

 

Aramis kept an eye on d'Artagnan as they drew closer to Paris. He was recovering, but still tiring far more quickly than he was used to, and Aramis had every intention of keeping him to his promise he wasn’t going to take any risks.

So they were well within sight of the city when he called a halt. d'Artagnan looked up as he halted by the cart.

“You can ride from here,” Aramis told him, dismounting. d'Artagnan grinned, shuffling towards the back of the cart; Aramis untied his horse, steadying him while d'Artagnan mounted straight from the cart.

“Stay with us,” he reminded him, passing up the reins. d'Artagnan nodded, falling into step beside the cart. Aramis remounted and followed at the back of the little procession.

d'Artagnan stayed upright all the way to the garrison, and he dismounted without any particular sign of tiredness, but he didn’t argue when Athos waved him to a bench. When Aramis looked over d'Artagnan caught his eye and smiled; Aramis took that to mean he was all right, going to take care of his horse.

Serge had been around by the time Aramis came back to the bench. d'Artagnan was cradling a bowl of something steaming hot. “Do you get sick?” he asked as Aramis sat beside him.

“Pardon?”

“Do you get sick,” d'Artagnan repeated. “I know you can’t affect yourself, but do you get sick?”

“I get sick, yes.” Over d'Artagnan’s head he caught Athos’ eye, gesturing him away without moving; Athos nodded, turning to intercept Porthos and take him upstairs.

“You took a risk, then.”

“No more than the rest of you,” Aramis said carefully. d'Artagnan seemed oddly – well, reflective was one word. Disconnected was another, and one Aramis didn’t like to use.

“We knew you’d help us if we fell ill.”

“I knew you’d help me if I fell ill.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s enough for me.” d'Artagnan didn’t seem convinced; Aramis added “Every time you fight with us, you risk the Dark Place.”

“I risk the Dark Place anywhere I am. People die.” He looked up from his bowl for the first time in the conversation, seeming to climb out of his own head. “What does it feel like? When someone’s hurt nearby?”

“Like a pull. An urge. I can ignore it, but there’s effort involved. Much like you ignoring us, I imagine.”

“It’s worse the worse someone is hurt?”

“Everyone calls at the same level no matter how badly they’re hurt. A person bleeding out from a stomach wound is the same as that person with a sprained ankle.”

“That seems wrong. How are you to know who needs help more?”

“By using my eyes, mostly. d'Artagnan, are you all right?”

d'Artagnan blinked, focusing on him with a clear effort. “Yes. I’m just getting used to Paris again.”

“How can I help?”

“Keep talking to me? About anything, not just that.”

“I thought of suggesting we stop for you to swim on the way back, but I was afraid you’d sink.”

“I probably would have,” d'Artagnan agreed with a smile. “Tell me which of your lady friends you’re planning on seeing first.”

“A gentleman never kisses and tells, d'Artagnan. Besides, I won’t see anyone for a day or two yet.”

“Do you think we’re still contagious?”

“I’d rather be certain we aren’t. That influenza wasn’t quite like any I’ve seen before. It moved very quickly. It would devastate Paris if it got here. Luckily, a disease that moves that quickly usually burns itself out just as quickly. We should be free of it very shortly.”

“Good,” d'Artagnan murmured. “I’ll be glad when it’s done. Keep talking to me, Aramis.”

Aramis obliged, wondering about what might have happened in the city while they were gone, and how the ladies might have missed him, and how the Red Guards had probably not missed Porthos but the tavern owners had certainly missed Athos, and somewhere in the middle of it all d'Artagnan drifted off, wedged against his shoulder.

 

Almost two weeks passed before Aramis stopped monitoring everything d'Artagnan was doing. d'Artagnan had mostly born it patiently, occasionally complaining to Porthos or Athos when Aramis wasn’t around.

He made time, once Aramis was happy they weren’t contagious, to go and see Flora. Her tutelage had probably saved his sanity; he wouldn’t have weathered the town nearly as well without the shields she’d taught him to construct. Flora made him promise to keep coming back to see her and he agreed easily.

He hadn’t seen Constance in a long time, and he hated to think of her trapped with her husband, but he couldn’t think of a way to help her; not until he heard that one of Anne’s ladies in waiting was leaving. Ladies were always leaving, of course – it was the nature of the position – but this time it occurred to d'Artagnan that this could be the answer he needed.

The next time he was guarding the royal couple he contrived to get a couple of moments alone with the queen to extol Constance’s virtues. Nothing would be done until after the birth, of course, but the queen promised to interview Constance as soon as she could see people again. d'Artagnan thanked her profusely and withdrew as Louis returned.

He couldn’t warn Constance, and he couldn’t be sure she’d take the position, but he thought she would. Bonacieux couldn’t possibly protest, not if the queen herself asked for her. It was all he could do for her.

They were getting ready to go on a mission – the first since they’d returned to Paris – when Treville stepped out onto the balcony and shouted for the regiment to assemble. “At four fifteen this morning,” he said wearily, “Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu died.”

“Died,” Porthos repeated. “He’s dead?”

“It appears his heart gave out.” Treville was looking through them, past them. “Athos, your mission continues. All other missions are cancelled immediately. His Grace will be buried with all honours.”

Treville was grieving, sharp and deep. d'Artagnan lowered his head, one hand pressed to the centre of Aramis’ back while he rebalanced himself. Porthos shifted slightly, only a handsbreadth away on his right, warm and solid.

“One more thing,” Treville said from above them. “I am aware that you all have your opinions of Cardinal Richelieu’s character and conduct. If I hear so much as a _rumour_ that any Musketeer has been disrespecting him, expressing pleasure at his death, intimating in any way that this is a good day for France, that Musketeer will be immediately dismissed. A man of God has died and we will display the appropriate respect and solemnity. Am I understood?”

The regiment murmured agreement and Treville dismissed them sharply, turning on his heel to march back into his office. The regiment dispersed slowly, coming together in groups to murmur.

“You’re not surprised,” Athos accused Aramis as soon as they had something approaching privacy.

Aramis shook his head slowly. “I was aware that his heart was weak.”

“You were?” Athos repeated. “And didn’t tell us?”

“It wasn’t mine to tell. What good would it have done you to know, anyway? You couldn’t have benefitted from it or speeded his death.”

“I did not like the man,” Athos said softly. “But I would not have attempted to hurry his death.”

Aramis grimaced, rubbing his face. “No. You would not. Forgive me.”

Athos clapped his shoulder gently. “Come. Our mission is waiting for us. Time to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, guys, we're taking a little break before starting the next phase, mostly because I haven't decided what's going to be next. Whatever it is, it will post at the same time as this one, Tuesday night/Wednesday morning. But it probably won't be next week. 
> 
> Thanks a million to everyone who commented, kudos, and followed along the way. You're amazing. <3


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